Obligation and Desire
by DJ Clawson
Summary: Story 10. Geoffrey and Georgiana Darcy return to Europe to find Charles depressed, Edmund married, Isabel pregnant, and George absent. As usual, trickery and rescues ensue.
1. Prologue

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Introduction: So here we are, in story 10 of the series. For those of you who are new, you may want to go to my profile page and start reading the stories in order, because at this point, it'll be a bit hard to start fresh with this one. Allow me to attempt to summarize stories 1-9:

Darcy and Bingley marry Elizabeth and Jane. They have kids. Caroline falls in love with a poor doctor and gets married. They have kids. Darcy finds out he has a bastard brother, who is a monk and does not have kids. Mary Bennet gets pregnant while abroad and has a kid out of wedlock. Dr. Maddox's brother gets married and runs away, and a lot of rescuing is involved in getting them their rescuers (Darcy and Maddox) back from Transylvania. More kids all around. Darcy's brother is thrown of the church, gets married, has a kid. The kids grow up, shoot people and get shot, and get married. They have kids. Darcy's son and Bingley's daughter go to Japan after not having a kid, come home with another kid on the way. Mr. Bennet is still alive, though he does not have any more kids.

That should about sum it up. We return to our story, with Geoffrey and Georgiana Darcy on their way home from Japan. Georgiana is pregnant again, and they're stopping in Italy first to pick up Charles III (Bingley is Charles II). Georgiana's youngest brother, Edmund, is getting married. Isabel Franklin (nee Wickham) is expecting a child as well, and her brother George Wickham III is studying medicine in France.

My first two stories have been published as a book. Go to my profile page for links to purchase it if you wish to support me, but it's basically the same story so I don't expect it. Book 2 (story 3, "The Price of Family") and Book 3 (story 4, "Left to Follow") are tentatively under contract and will be out next fall. Your support is greatly appreciated, as it means Sourcebooks buys more books from me and then I pay the electricity bill. Everybody wins.

Enjoy the story!

* * *

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Fitzwilliam Darcy, a gentleman of some seven and fifty years, trusted his well-honed instincts and paid an usually early-morning call to the Bingley house in London. As he predicted, the house was already awake, and Charles Bingley II received him in the study. They had an excellent view of the morning street, as the rich stumbled home and the poor rose to attend to them.

"Darcy."

"Bingley."

Bingley's mood was considerably sober even for an average day, much less an eventful one. "What brings you around?"

"Bingley, I've known you most of my life, and I see my astute powers of prediction have not failed me. I came to cheer you up."

Bingley, who was sipping some morning ale, chuckled. "_You_ were sent to cheer me up."

"I was not _sent_." Darcy folded his arms and scoffed. "It was my idea."

"What did Mrs. Darcy think?"

"She may have had similar thoughts as your own as to the absurdity of such a notion." He saw Bingley smile. "Nonetheless, it seems to have worked. So where is our dashing young groom?"

"He has his own men to attend to him. I need not worry."

Darcy wanted to say something, but nothing came. Bingley's melancholia was understandable: he was about to lose another child. It was not quite on par with giving away a daughter, but Edmund Bingley was a second son, and unlike the eldest son, he would leave the house to build his own. His youth would make any father nervous, but Edmund had always been quick to take on the responsibilities of life. At twenty he had completed University and earned a degree to practice the law, used his allowance to invest in colonial concerns in China and turn them into a small fortune that would likely only grow larger, and found himself a wife in a burst of emotion. Bingley granted his consent mostly because of Edmund's enthusiasm. If a squire's daughter could bring out a visible happiness that they had not seen in years, his request could hardly be refused.

Their courtship was short, and the engagement only slightly longer – two months, mainly to prove that they were not marrying in haste for the _sake_ of anything. By then Edmund was bursting at the seams, and the date was set despite the absence of two of his three siblings. Charles the Third was still in Italy, and sent his congratulations but did not race home, and Georgiana was on her way home from Japan. This all compounded Bingley's mood. The wedding would leave him with one child in the house, and Eliza Bingley would eventually accept _someone's_ offer of matrimony. Darcy still held on to three, and four when Geoffrey returned.

"I do wish Charles had come," Bingley said.

Yes, that was what Darcy was here for. "Charles is apparently very intent on showing you he is his own man. Both of your sons are. Many fathers would be grateful."

"They need not be their own men at the same _time_." Bingley sighed. "But I suppose, as always, you are correct. Edmund has found someone to make him happy and has the means to bring about her happiness. I could not have asked for a second son with a greater ability at independence." He looked up from his ale. "Do you know we thought he would take orders? When he was very young, of course, because he was so serious. The clergy or the military; we thought they were his only options, but the world has changed."

"He made his own options. He's a very clever boy." Darcy corrected himself. "Man."

"Yes."

The door opened and the servant bowed. "Mr. Maddox to see you, sir."

"Send him in." Bingley did his best to put a smile on as Brian Maddox entered. "Brian."

"Charles. Darcy." Brian bowed. "I knew you would find somewhere to hole yourself up and be miserable. And on your son's wedding day!"

"Darcy came to cheer me up."

"Darcy? Well, obviously he's done a _wonderful_ job so far."

Darcy looked out the window and said, "Still hiding from your brother?"

"No," Brian said, and poured himself some ale. "I'm hiding from his wife, thank you very much."

The arrival of Brian and Nadezhda Maddox was an unexpected surprise. They arrived from their journey faster than their letters, and the family was in shock with the mixed bag of news. Geoffrey, Georgiana, and Alison Darcy were all fine, but stopping in Italy to see/collect Charles, having no way of knowing that Edmund was marrying at all, much less the date. That could be excused, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief that they were safely back in Europe, but the other Maddoxes were still recovering from the shock that there was a missing person in their group. Daniel Maddox Junior decided to stay in Japan, and though Brian insisted (several times over several days) that he had argued against the decision until he was blue in the face, nothing short of force of arms would put him on the boat and Brian didn't have it in him to do it. Danny Maddox sent a long letter of apology home with Brian and Nadezhda for his parents and siblings, but could not put into words why he would linger in the Orient for another year. They had no choice but to respect their son's decision, but they had every incentive to make sure Brian knew how upset they were over their wayward son.

Unfortunately, Brian and Nadezhda arrived but two days before the wedding day, and it was too late to cancel the ceremony at St. George's and put it off until the arrival of the Darcys. Edmund did not have a burning desire to wait for his brother Charles – the two of them had always been distant, and there was no guarantee Charles would come home at the news. No, Edmund did his time as an engaged bachelor, and now he would enter holy matrimony with or without his far-traveling siblings.

"We have all of our lives to entertain them, and them to entertain us," Edmund said, gazing into the eyes of his future wife, Miss Lucy Hartford. The family decided it was an acceptable answer, mainly because they were enthusiastic about the smile on Edmund's face.

"Cheer up," Brian said. "You've a son more accomplished than any of us were at his age, unless you mean me, and only in the realm of drinking and gambling. And soon enough, you'll have all of them together again, married or not. I authorized Geoffrey to use whatever force necessary to bring Charles home."

"And you intend for Georgiana to just stand by and watch?" Bingley asked.

"No. She didn't need my authorization." He raised his glass. "To marriage, and your family's happiness, even if you choose not to partake in it with this gloomy fellow over here."

"At least I can do as I want without fear of another denouncement from my sister-in-law," Darcy replied.

Brian rolled his eyes. "Yes, you should be so lucky."

* * *

Elsewhere, the Bingley house was in an uproar. Edmund was dressed and attended to on his own, with the same calmness to which he approached every day, but that did not stop his relatives from doing otherwise.

"My son is getting married!" Jane said, and Elizabeth Darcy had to resist the urge to roll her eyes, if only because it was not the first, nor even the third time Jane must have said it that very morning. "I always thought Charles would be first."

"Maybe he will surprise us with an Italian bride."

"Oh no! Well, I don't suppose it would be so terrible as long as he came home and stayed, but certainly we would prefer to meet her. And not all at once! I think Charles might not survive."

Now Elizabeth did roll her eyes as she was handed a fresh cup of tea. "Yes, poor Charles."

"He will be happier when Georgiana and Charles are home. To have them all in a room together! How long has it been?"

"Two years." Two _very_ long years. How would she ever part with her daughters? Or Jane with Eliza, even though Eliza was certainly of age. "It will be something astonishing. I'm told it will be even more astonishing if we can speak to our granddaughter."

"Nadezhda said Alison speaks a _little_ English. Perhaps more than she spoke when she left." Jane waved off her maid, who was putting the final touches on her hair. "And children learn so quickly."

"And by implication, we learn very slowly. I think I may have the right to feel insulted."

"Lizzy! Not now. My son is getting married! I know we will miss him but it is so good to see him happy at last."

On this, Elizabeth could only happily agree.

* * *

One person was admitted to Edmund's chambers besides his manservant – or more accurately, two. "The big day," Frederick Maddox said, setting his son Stewart down on the carpet.

"If you leave him there, I'm afraid I might step on him."

"I just wanted to remind you what you're in for."

Edmund rolled his eyes as his manservant tightened his cravat. "You don't seem that upset."

"Maybe not," Frederick said. He picked up his son before he could crawl away and held him up so they faced each other. "Though they have a tendency to smell. And cry. And bite. And he ruined my favorite vest by spitting up all over it."

"And you love him anyway."

"I have my moments. Besides, I have the exclusive right to escape to a club, leaving Heather and the nursing staff to care for him when he gets moody. Don't I?" He looked down at his son, who giggled at him and stuffed his tiny hand in his mouth.

"Not anymore, you don't." With his outfit ready, Edmund stepped down from the stand. "You still haven't told me how you managed to get kicked out of White's."

"I didn't _manage_ it. It's not all that hard. It is a very exclusive club, you know. And if they suddenly decide to exclude you... well."

"I mean the reason behind it."

"They said I was cheating, but that's because they don't understand mathematics. Anyway, I did try to tell you, but you've been in that lovesick daze for a month now, so I figured it wasn't worth it. When your moody brother and sister get home, I'll liven up the evening with a boring explanation of how to win at cards."

"I heard you took the Viscount Brougham for all he's worth."

"A minor exaggeration. And do you have a wedding to go to or not?"

Edmund Bingley smiled. "I suppose I do."

* * *

In the sight of G-d, their friends, and what could be gathered of their family, Mr. Edmund Bingley and Miss Lucy Hartford were married in the very fashionable St. George's Cathedral. There was not a soul present who did not look pleasurably upon the proceedings, and wish them all the blessings in the world.

The wedding breakfast was grand, giving everyone a chance to take part in the festivities, even the very smallest of Lydia's six children. The only one not present (besides the wayward relatives) was Edmund's namesake, Mr. Bennet. The journey was too long and hard for someone approaching their eighty-fourth birthday. Edmund Bingley made a special journey to Derbyshire right before the wedding to see his grandfather. Mr. Bennet gave him all of his blessings and then some; the old man was normally of full wit, but had his moments where he would confuse people who looked alike (though this could be attributed to his poor sight), and Edmund did look much like his father. Despite his frailty, Mr. Bennet was as jovial and witty as ever, and wished his grandson well and that he should have a daughter, because Mr. Bennet said he "always seemed to prefer daughters."

With no deaths, no tragedies, and the prospect of the return of the long-gone children of Pemberley and Kirkland, the extended Darcy, Bingley, and Maddox family, along with the other Bennet sisters and their husbands, looked to the future with promise.

...Next Chapter - The Barefoot European


	2. The Barefoot European

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Enjoy the story!

* * *

Chapter 2 - The Barefoot European

Geoffrey Darcy – gentleman, husband, father, and world-traveler – returned from his extended voyage to the Orient after making a shocking discovery that would have sent any dandy into convulsions: his boots no longer fit. After two years of wearing sandals, his feet had spread, and attempting to slip into leather boots was a painful experience. Even in Capetown, as their ship rounded the coast, they were unable to find anything. He would have to have new boots made upon their return to England.

Not that his wife had any objections; Georgiana Darcy (nee Bingley) found the whole thing amusing, and having a fashionable husband was the least of her concerns. That did not mean she was particularly pleased with him at this time. She always found the first few months of her condition to be the hardest, with the rocking ship not helping.

Aside from Brian and Nadezhda, the only one unperturbed by the lengthy journey was Alison Darcy. At four years of age, she was easy to amuse, and her smile could melt the heart of even the hardiest of sailors, especially when they spoke to her in Dutch and she answered in Japanese. The deck of the ship was not a large playground, but she had plenty of toys in her room and her father to care for her when her mother was resting or ill (which she always seemed to be, in Alison's opinion). They insisted on speaking to her in another language, but it did not interest her in the least.

"She's not in an English environment," Brian said to Geoffrey. Almost all of the ship's crew were from Holland. "She'll pick it up as easily as she picked up Japanese."

Geoffrey had no doubt of it. They parted ways with the Maddoxes on the Spanish coast, taking only their essentials – their clothing and money – and boarding a ship to take them to Italy. The ship was much smaller, and the rocking was more difficult for both parents, but fortunately Alison was easily entertained by the passing ships of the Mediterranean and the often-visible coast. The crew was Italian, which Georgie spoke enough of to manage steady communications from her year in seminary.

They'd written to her brother Charles of their intentions from Japan and again from South Africa, but they had no way of knowing if the letters reached him in time. Previously he invited them to the villa he inhabited on the Italian coast, so they assumed the invitation, something he did not readily give to other family members, was still open.

"I hope he's happy to see us."

"I hope one of us remembers to bring Alison when we both race off this boat."

Geoffrey laughed and kissed his wife.

Clad in the new, ill-fitting suit purchased in Capetown, Geoffrey was the first with his feet on land, but only because he carried his daughter across the plank (which she deemed frightening).

"Is this Uncle Charles' house?"

He looked at the dock warehouse and said, "Say it in English."

"Papa!"

"Say it."

She put her hand in her mouth. "That – Uncle Charles home?"

"_Is this Uncle Charles' house?_" he said in English.

"_Is this Uncle Charl is house?" _she mimicked.

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "It isn't, but well done."

Georgiana, who was wearing one of the new dresses over her kimono, returned to them after speaking to a local. "The address is half a day's ride from here."

"In a carriage or a palanquin?"

"I insisted on the palanquin."

"I'll walk," Geoffrey said with a roll of his eyes; Georgiana instructed the dock-workers to load their one trunk onto the carriage. The bumpy roads were nothing to the incessant rocking of the ship, and there was something comforting about the smell of the inside of a closed carriage, padded with cushions and local fabrics. It was still foreign, but so much more like home to them than anything they had felt in years, not even in the British colonies in India and South Africa.

"Is this Uncle Charles' house?" Alison repeated, pressing her finger against the glass at the appearance of every farmhouse, shack, and tollbooth.

"No," Geoffrey said. "Let your mother rest." Georgie wouldn't ever dream of admitting it, but she was worn out not just from the journey but also from her condition. She was pale, and drank ginger tea constantly, keeping it in a flask in her purse. A warm bed and rest would do her good. If they were at Pemberley, so much the better, but that would have to wait a few more weeks.

"What if we miss it?" Alison whispered in Japanese.

"We won't," he assured her, and pulled her over to his side of the carriage. "I promise."

Alison was quiet long enough for even Geoffrey to doze. He woke to the halt of the carriage, and found Alison with her head in his lap. Still yawning himself, he waited for the groom to open the door. "Signor."

Georgiana was already awake, but she did not look composed, and Geoffrey stepped out first and handed the note with the address to the driver to confirm that the yellow-washed stone house on a hill he was looking at was indeed the current home of Charles Bingley III. He gestured for their trunk to be removed, and picked up Alison and set her down, then went about seeing Georgie out of the carriage. "Are you all right?"

"Starving," she said. "And – I suppose I could use some air."

"There certainly is plenty of it," he said. The air smelled of the sea, and he helped her to sit down on the trunk. There was a footman at the beginning of the manicured path leading up to the villa, and he approached and exchanged some words with the groom before turning to the Darcys.

"I am Signor Darcy," he said. He could manage that much in Italian. "My wife is Signora Darcy, Signor Bingley's sister."

"I speak Italian," she announced, picking her head up. Her bonnet was not particularly efficient at blocking the sun. "Please, sir."

They exchanged some words, and it must have gone well, because the carriage was given permission to depart. Geoffrey could only catch bits of it, but it seemed that Charles was not expecting or seeing visitors. Georgiana redoubled her explanation of who she was (as the letters seemed not to have reached him in time) and how she would see her brother, and the footman relented, and gave Geoffrey a nervous smile. He was either astoundingly well-dressed for a servant, or they had been in Japan for too long.

Another servant came down to offer assistance with the trunk. He spoke no English whatsoever, but that didn't stop Alison's barrage of Japanese questions, the first being whether he was her uncle or not.

"Your uncle is blond, darling," Georgiana said. "You might even recognize him."

The path, not paved but smoothed for curricles and horses, was beautiful in of itself, with periodic potted plants and columns in imitation of the old Roman style. Each one of them was differently colored and was even possibly of great age. Between the trees they could see the ocean, a beautiful blue seen through a clear sky. Why anyone would want to live here was no mystery.

The villa itself was a square structure with a red roof, rather simple in construction but not in appearance. It was surrounded by gardens and patios and everything man could do to compliment it, making a house smaller than theirs in Lancashire appear grander, if in a Continental way. Everything exuded elegance.

True to her father's hopeful prediction, Alison did recognize her godfather. "Uncle Charles!" she screamed, running ahead of them to greet the man emerging from the house. Charles Bingley the Third was exquisitely dressed with his coat in an Italian cut, his blond hair tussled, and his side-whiskers kept short. He retained the features of a man several years younger than he was, and he had an easy smile for his niece, kneeling to greet her. "Goodness! Alison Darcy, look at you!"

"I know who you are. Where did you get your house? Does anyone else live here? Can I play in the garden? Did you bring presents? Did you miss me, Uncle Charles?"

Unfortunately, her amusing tirade contained only two words 'Uncle Charles' understood – and those were the words. The rest had been in a steady stream of fast-spoken Japanese. He recovered quickly. "I missed you, too." He hugged her, and stood to bow to Geoffrey. "Welcome back, Geoffrey. Georgie, are you all right? I apologize – I wasn't expecting you."

"We wrote, so you should get the letter in a few months," Geoffrey said as Georgie embraced her brother.

"I'm fine," she said, and whispered something in Charles's ear, which he responded to with a wide smile.

"Really? Oh – " He spoke quickly to the woman in black standing behind them in Italian, probably the housekeeper, and she curtseyed and left, returning with a chair for Georgiana. "Please. What would you like?"

"Tea. Any kind will do," she said. "It is so good to see you." She held his hands in hers for a moment before she let him go, and he had more orders for the servants. He was surprised that they only had one trunk, but Geoffrey shrugged.

Eventually they were settled on a patio overlooking the valley below, and Charles did manage up a surprise of a doll for his goddaughter, who managed to thank him in English. Georgiana's color was returning, and she nibbled on a pastry, then scarfed the rest of them down.

"Oh G-d," Geoffrey said after taking a sip of the offered wine. "This is the real thing. Do you know what I would have paid for this a year ago?" He clinked his glass against Charles'. "Italian?"

"French."

"Of course."

"He's going to be cup-shot in a few minutes, and asleep in an hour," Georgie said as she watched her husband happily down his glass. "But he deserves it, I suppose."

"You see how you like wine made from rice!" Geoffrey said to Charles.

"I'm sure I wouldn't," he said. "So am I the first to be graced with your company?" He grinned. "It is an honor. I did get a few letters sometime last summer, all in a bundle, but I had only news about you by way of England to know you were alive and well. So Uncle Brian and Her Highness have gone ahead with Danny?"

There was an uncomfortable cough from Geoffrey, and Georgie answered as fearlessly as she did everything else, "Danny stayed."

"Stayed? Stayed where?"

"In Japan. He wanted to travel more."

"Did his father grant his permission?"

"Did Papa grant you permission to be here?"

Charles looked away. "I don't need Father's permission. But this is only Italy, and besides, Danny's young."

"He would not listen to reason, and as I am very accustomed to loved ones' and relatives' individual streaks, I did not tie him up and toss him on the boat with Mr. Maddox," Geoffrey said, "though we did consider it."

"Did he say how long he plans to stay?"

"A year. Maybe more," Georgie answered. "I suspect until his sight is gone, which will be soon, but you ought not repeat that."

Charles nodded, and sipped his wine. "As eager as I am to hear all of the details of your trip, I can see that you both are exhausted, and while I was not expecting visitors, the guest rooms will be ready momentarily." He said something quickly to a servant, who nodded and took away his glass. "I assume Alison is not fluent in English."

"We're trying our best," Geoffrey said. Between the wine and his own exhaustion, he was light-headed, and glad that Charles brought their conversation to a close. "She'll pick it all up again soon. I'm just happy she recognized you."

They shared a laugh, and Charles showed them to their rooms – beautiful, spacious bedrooms with murals on the walls and a view of the ocean from the balcony. Georgie saw that Alison was fed and put to rest in her own room before she would agree to lie down herself. She kissed her brother on the cheek. "I worried for you."

"I would say the same."

She hugged her brother again. Geoffrey nodded to Charles, who left, shutting the door behind him.

They both collapsed, still dressed, on the grand bed, complete with carved wooden posts and a canopy. It was bizarre to be so far off the floor. Geoffrey helped Georgie out of her new dress, unlacing it in the back for her, and she slipped under the sheet in her under-kimono as he removed his jacket and vest, and kicked off his sandals. Despite all she had eaten, she was still a little pale. He slid a hand in and rubbed her belly, where there was just the smallest swelling of what would hopefully be their next child. This time, Georgiana bore her symptoms with considerable might, but they assaulted her small frame all the same.

"You'll feel better soon," he whispered. It was probably true; they were back on land, and she was probably near or passing her three-month point, when the initial symptoms would ease. "And you don't have to drink any more foul potions."

"If I still feel this way afterwards, I'm going right back on it. You caught me in a moment of weakness."

"It is the only way you can be caught."

They giggled, and with that, managed to finally relax.

* * *

Geoffrey rose first. He did it quietly, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife from her well-deserved rest. The servants were a bit shocked, when he entered the dressing chamber, that he had dressed himself, and looked at his feet, but he just shrugged in return and inquired after his daughter.

Alison was more than happy to see him, and pushed away all of the food the maid was trying to feed her to greet her father. "Papa! I missed you!"

"Did you rest?"

She nodded. She was not accustomed to being away from him and cared for by others, but it was an adjustment he told her she would have to make. "Where's Mama?"

"Still sleeping."

"How long is she going to be sick?"

"Several months, but then she'll be better."

"Promise?"

He smiled. "I promise." They explained to her, in some form, Georgiana's condition, but of course it was beyond her understanding and part of them wanted it to remain that way. "Why don't you finish your dinner?"

"I want to eat with you. Why can't I eat with you?"

"English children don't eat with their parents."

"Then I don't want to be English!" she shouted – appropriately, in Japanese.

"I'm afraid you've no choice in the matter," he said, and gave her a reassuring smile. "When we are home in Lancashire, we'll eat together sometimes. How about that?"

She grumbled, but agreed, and returned to her meal. The Tuscan sun was setting, and Geoffrey found Charles on the largest of the many balconies, watching the sky turn orange, and then red. Before Geoffrey could reach him, he nearly crashed into a charging servant, who uttered something in Italian that didn't sound particularly apologetic and continued on his way.

"Charles."

Charles just looked up at him and nodded. "Geoffrey." His face was flushed, as if he was agitated, or maybe it was just the wine. "Dinner's late here – but you're welcome to something if you are hungry."

"I'm not, but thank you." He took his seat, wondering if he would have to make conversation first. Fortunately, the decision was not his.

"Did my father send you?"

"You know the answer to that. We haven't even been home yet."

"I mean, did he write you and tell you to come?"

"No." Geoffrey looked at his cousin, but Charles' eyes were lost in his own thoughts. "Eliza did."

Charles said nothing, but acknowledged this with a slight nod.

"Practically all of her letters were about you. Your time in London, your habits as a bachelor, the doctor's visit."

"So nothing is sacred," Charles grumbled. "I'm not ill."

"She said you _looked_ ill." Here, in Italy, Charles did not. He had a healthy weight and color on his face, not like Eliza had so painstakingly described in her letters. "She has a right to be concerned when she sees you in bad shape."

"I wasn't ill."

"You were in some fashion – enough for her to write us halfway across the world – "

"It was none of your business." He sighed. "But I suppose it is, and you've come to drag me home."

"I'm not inclined to drag anyone. Charles, there are people who _want_ you home. They desire your presence. They worry about you for all reasons you've given them. I'm worried about you. Georgie's worried about you." He paused, and considered his next words. "Is this about marriage?"

Charles laughed unhappily. "My father hasn't pressed the issue, no. We're not all inclined to make a running leap to the altar, like Frederick and Edmund."

"But – Edmund?"

"What? Oh, it must have been too recent for you to hear. Edmund is to be married. Or, is married. I forget the date. He met a girl while escorting Eliza to an assembly and that was that." He swallowed his wine. "He wrote that since he had no idea of your arrival date, he would reluctantly pursue his endeavors without his sister present."

This Geoffrey needed to digest for a moment. Edmund, married? At twenty? "Why aren't you home?"

"I was not invited."

"Don't be ridiculous. He needn't even _say_ – "

"You mistake me. I was _not invited_. Edmund made that very clear in his letter and it is my brotherly duty to respect that."

"It is your brotherly duty to – what?" He shook his head. He understood the words, but he did not understand. "Does your mother know about this?"

"That's the first thing out of your mouth?"

"She is my aunt. And mother-in-law."

Charles shook his head. "It's between me and Edmund. I don't want to hurt my parents any more than I already have."

"_What_ is between you and Edmund?"

His cousin finally looked him in the eye. "If Eliza couldn't get it out of me, you certainly won't."

"Georgie will."

"In her condition, I wouldn't recommend it. It's not so simple. And no, it's not about marriage, or illness, or Kirkland. Not specifically."

Geoffrey considered this. Did Edmund covet Kirkland? He never expressed an interest before, and life had hardly dealt him a bad hand. He did well in school and was already on his way to being a successful barrister, and if the news was true, he was married. He didn't _need_ Kirkland. _But that wouldn't prevent him from wanting it_. Geoffrey was suddenly never more thankful not to have a brother.

It did sort of make sense. The older brother, simpler one, inheriting almost everything, and the younger brother – who was undeniably more cunning – forever attempting to prove himself. Perhaps even Uncle Bingley wasn't aware of it, but Geoffrey was not prepared to brand his uncle such a fool.

That didn't explain everything – not by far – but it was something to think on.

"Geoffrey," Charles said, "for old time's sake, make me a promise."

"I'll hear you out."

Charles swirled his glass around, letting the wine twirl in the glass. "I know you've come to bring me home, but at least give me a day or two before you bring it up again. I'm not prepared."

How could he refuse? It would be too cruel. "A day or two."

"Yes."

"All right." He stood, leaving his wine untouched, and patted Charles on the shoulder as he left. "All will be well."

But Charles' sad chuckle told him otherwise.

...Next Chapter - The Witch


	3. The Witch

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Enjoy the story!

* * *

Chapter 3 - The Witch

When Georgiana woke, Geoffrey spoke to her about his conversation with Charles, and most importantly, his promise to Charles. Georgie was not pleased, as what her husband told her only added to her concerns, but she agreed not to raise the issue herself until at least the next day. She had much to think on herself – especially the news of the wedding.

"He got along with Edmund when they were children," she said as she washed her face. "It must have happened while Charles was in Cambridge. I was so distracted." She shook her head. "Charles tried to talk to me about his depression in University, but it was as if he wasn't ready and I wasn't ready to hear it. I was so focused on you."

"When was this?"

"About a month before our marriage."

Geoffrey simply said, "Oh."

Georgie dried her hands, and wound her mandala beads back around her right wrist. "It's no excuse. Still, it doesn't make sense. Charles has never really talked or not talked about inheriting Kirkland – he knows all of the estate business, I'm sure, but it's not as if his income is from land like Pemberley."

"No, it's much simpler. It's simply a question of what the business is worth and if Uncle Bingley intends to sell it at some point."

"And Edmund has always been so intent to prove himself as a man who could stand on his own. He wouldn't settle for a living in the military or the church."

"He's fortunate, then, that he wasn't born a generation ago."

"He is. He's said as much to me. I've never had the impression that he desires Kirkland, but I've not precisely been around to notice his moods as of late." She frowned. "Eliza has. She would have said something, but she's hardly said anything of Edmund except how well he's done for himself."

"I don't think this is something Edmund would discuss with her."

"True. So I will be on my best behavior – for tonight. And some of tomorrow."

She shooed Geoffrey away as the maid approached to help her dress for the evening in something that was available. He was attended to by his own assigned manservant, a fussy Italian with enough English to order him to be steady for the tying of a tighter and more complex cravat than he was used to. They were still unable to locate any fitting boots, but he told them his stay would not be long.

Before dinner formally began, he went to say goodnight to Alison, then joined his wife and cousin for dinner. Georgiana was in a better mood, and ravenously attacked the first courses, but drank only tea. The talking was mostly left to Geoffrey, and for a moment (and after a few glasses of a very fine claret) he forgot his worries. This was his cousin, his friend, a man who was like a brother to him (and was, by law). He could tell him things he left out of the letters, and it would be a good testing ground for revealing just how many attacks on their persons they withstood.

Charles was his old charming self, different from what he had been an hour ago. "Mr. Darcy, a village constable?"

"I think I was a rather effective one. Georgie?"

"You had a gun, dear. That alone made you intimidating."

"There's more to being a constable than being intimidating," Charles said.

"I will grant him that," Georgie said, not looking up from her plate, which she was very set on emptying. "They were very grateful people. Did we tell him the gift they gave you at the festival?"

"The cow?"

"But I thought they didn't eat meat," Charles interrupted.

"They do not," Geoffrey answered. "But they have cattle for farming. And they... gave us one. The whole animal. Alive."

"He held out until Christmas," Georgie said, "because I liked the milk. The Japanese don't drink cow milk; they think it hurts the cow or something like that. But Christmas Eve, he... did whatever he did to get meat for the next morning."

"I will shorten the story for the sake of proper dinner conversation and say that it is much harder to turn a living cow into steak than I had previously imagined, and I have a new appreciation for the butchers and their awful task."

"You're a huntsman."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I skin the birds and cook them. Anyway, we did have our wonderful feast of indeterminate chunks of beef – "

" – and stuffed ourselves silly – "

" – and drank too much, I suspect, because we must have said something that made Mugen look at me crossways for a week."

"How is Mugen?" Charles asked. "I'm afraid I only have a few memories of him, from his second trip, though he was distinct enough to have remained in my mind."

"He's written us from his new home on one of the islands off the coast of Japan," Georgie said as the servant refilled her plate. "It's an independent kingdom of sorts. Either he's very happy or he's a good liar."

"Probably both," Geoffrey said. "He promised Georgie he would stay out of trouble, and he seems to keep those promises, so who knows? But he is recovered from his wounds."

"His wounds?"

"We haven't gotten to that part of the story," Georgie told her husband. "We're still at Christmas."

"Which we were not allowed to celebrate or mention by name."

"Officially."

"Very anti-Christian sentiment there. Apparently the Franciscans were so intense in their missionary efforts that it set the shōgun off our religion entirely, regardless of your allegiance to the Pope."

"They did ask us if we were Catholic or Protestant."

"Yes – they did do that. No Catholics. In that, Parliament and Japan are in agreement."

Charles laughed. "Oh, you were not present. His Majesty, shortly before his death, approved the act to allow Catholics to sit in Parliament. There was quite a controversy over it, mainly because of Ireland."

"Has Uncle Grégoire written about it?"

"He has not written about it, or anything political for that matter, but according to Uncle Darcy, he was nearly dragged into politics in Dublin. He's very popular there. Patrick nearly had to carry him out of one assembly to help him escape."

"Patrick? He must be so grown now! He's twelve, is he not?"

"Almost, yes," Geoffrey said.

"I've heard he's shot up like a weed," Charles said. "Your sister told me by letter."

"Anne?"

"Sarah. It was not the terminology she used, but the message was clear. Very sweet but a very proud Irishman. There was a great parade in Dublin after the Emancipation Act and he burned himself with one of those sparkler firework sticks. He was a little disappointed that his father couldn't bless it and make it better." He waved. "But he can tell you that. I want to hear more of your crime-solving efforts in the town of émigré."

"Imbe."

"Yes, that."

Charles was more than delighted to hear about the mischievous daimyo, the magistrate who made every attempt to scam them, and the townsfolk who grew to love them. The coup de grace was their impromptu meeting with the emperor (though they toned down the actual bloodshed in the retelling) and his friendship with Alison.

"What did he look like?"

"I've no idea. He was always behind a red screen. His attendants set up a tent whenever he was to enter the room so we never saw his person. You'll have to ask Alison."

"I'm afraid I might not understand her answer."

They laughed, and the first dessert course was served. There was no shortage of confections, jellies – and of course, Italian ices. Geoffrey was full, but Georgie sampled everything on the tray. They finished the story, sparing some details, with their gifts from the emperor and their voyage back to Edo and then Nagasaki.

Normally the men would separate, but neither of them were smokers, and Georgie wanted her time with her brother before she started to fade, so Geoffrey busied himself in the library and the Bingley siblings sat down together in the drawing room.

"You look so much better," Charles said. "I would suppose that whatever you were looking for, you found in Japan."

Georgie unconsciously rested a hand on her belly, and refused a drink with the other. "Sensei – Mugen – taught me many things. More than he knew he was teaching." She smiled. "I'll tell you something funny. Do you know what reincarnation is?"

"It's an Indian belief, that the soul goes from one body to another instead of to heaven or hell. I remember something of it from one of the books in Father's study."

She nodded. "Mugen would never admit it, but he believed I was the reincarnation of his Chinese teacher."

"How is that even possible?"

"He said that Master Hyuu – my supposed former self – told him he wanted to reincarnate as a woman, so he could learn true compassion. He worshipped a female god."

"And this was the entire basis of his theory?"

"Not the entire," she said, looking away.

"If you tell our vicar that, he'll have some words for you about hellfire."

"For knowing it?"

"For believing it."

"Who said I believed it?"

He grinned. "You always believe what Mugen says. I remember that much about him."

"Charles Bingley, I will not tolerate an implication of heresy from you!" she said, waving her finger at him. "Mugen taught me many things, but not how to avoid being burned as a witch!"

"So he taught you magic?"

"You're lucky I have nothing in my hand to toss at your head."

He giggled. "I missed you, Georgie. I've always admired... that you do whatever it is you want to do, and make no apologies for it."

"It hasn't come without some considerable heartbreak," she said. "And it certainly hasn't been easy on Geoffrey. My dear, poor husband. Doesn't even have a working right ear or a decent pair of shoes, all because of me. And yet, I don't think he would take anything back."

"It is not easy to find such a match."

"Frederick managed it, even if he had to rob me of my best friend to do it."

He smiled. "Lady Heather does not seem too put out by it."

"How is she? Tell me honestly."

"Is there any other way I would tell you? She is very happy. I suppose by now you've heard they have a son, Stewart, named after Dr. Maddox's father. Frederick writes endless complaints about him. His crying, his eating habits, not getting a wink of sleep between the two of them..." He shook his head. "He usually doesn't go on about subjects he doesn't care for, so I can only assume the best. And if he'd been in any trouble in his marriage or life, Emily would write me."

"I hope she would."

"You'll have to see it with your own eyes."

_Soon enough_, she supposed.

* * *

Geoffrey did not retire early. He waited until Georgie returned from her talk with Charles, but she had nothing in particular to say, since she had been so careful to avoid the subject of his return to England. "He's so lonely," she said as she shooed away the maid trying to help her out of her gown. She preferred Geoffrey to do it, propriety be damned. Most of the servants seemed to be avoiding them, anyway. "I thought he would be at least hiding a mistress or two."

"Maybe she's not here."

"No. He would be happier. Isn't that what having a mistress is for?"

"I'm not an expert on the subject," he said, unlacing her. "You'll have to ask George."

She giggled and crawled into bed. She was tired again, but he stayed by her, reading an English-language newspaper by candlelight until she fell asleep, then rising again. He inquired after Charles, but was told he had retired by the English-speaking housekeeper. Geoffrey nodded and took a glass of brandy in the library. It was too warm in the room from the fire so Geoffrey cracked the glass door to the balcony to allow the sea breeze in to cool it off a bit. He perused the shelves, but of course much of it was in Italian, Latin, or French, and he was too tired to read the French books. Most of the books undoubtedly came with the house, but the ones that looked read (or at least not covered in dust) were the ones on travel, and a few on India. Charles was, to some extent, his father's son.

He finished his brandy and was about to leave when he decided to first close the glass door to the balcony. As he stepped out, he saw a light down by the garden. He could make out Charles' blond hair going to and fro as he talked with the other figure. No, it was more of an argument. An employee not happy about his impending loss of occupation, Geoffrey mused. He blew out his light and watched. He could hear their voices, and recognized it was English, but it was too faint, even though they were shouting. If only his hearing was better!

Deciding it was too frustrating of an exercise to try and discern anything about the animated conversation, he quietly closed the door and returned to his chambers. A warm body beside him would help against the strange chill down his spine.

* * *

Maybe Charles anticipated a visit from his niece – that, or he was just very resourceful, because the next day, he had a bathing costume for Alison as well as himself. It was far too cold for an outdoor pool, but the ingenuity of the Romans was not lost on the modern Europeans who came to nest in the same hills as Roman senators. One of the rooms had been hollowed out and retiled to look like an old Roman bath, similar to ones in its English namesake, the city of Bath, but much smaller and cleaner than the ancient ruins it replicated. Heated water was pumped in through the sides from the boiler. The water was much too deep for her, but he could stand in the water with his head well above the surface and hold her.

"I'm swimming, Papa, I'm swimming!"

"That you are," Geoffrey said. "Say 'I'm swimming'" he repeated in English.

"Simming!"

"Swimming."

"I sawiming!"

Beside him, Georgie laughed. "Good girl." Alison wasn't swimming so much as kicking and splashing. "Can you swim to me?" She stepped to the side of the pool.

With many failed attempts – for which, her uncle was always there to catch her before she went under – Alison was finally able to paddle her way to the edge of the pool, clinging to the stone and staying afloat without Charles' intervention. "Look at me!" she said in English.

"I'm looking," Geoffrey assured her. "Very good."

"Ice cream!"

"I think she's certainly earned it," Charles said, helping her up and out of the pool, where the maid assigned as her nurse was ready with a towel.

"Ice cream, please," Geoffrey corrected.

"Ice cream, please," she parroted, probably unaware of what it meant. Due to the cold weather, the house had a ready supply of ice cream, and her uncle was more than happy to see her wish granted.

"We could leave her with you," Geoffrey said, "but we'll come back to a round daughter who is spoiled rotten."

"Would you ever leave her anywhere?"

"True." He leaned back on the padded pool chair. "I suppose when we have enough of them we might start dropping a few off at someone's place."

Charles looked at Georgie, who was walking off with Alison to see her washed up. "You only said that because she isn't here."

"It's still true, but you are correct in my strategic timing."

Charles pulled himself out of the pool, and put on a sort of robe and a towel over his shoulders. "I don't know how my sister will do with your fatherly notions."

"I let nature take its course. And then she fights nature, and sometimes, she even wins," he said. "Japan was good for her."

"Do you think you'll ever go back?"

"Maybe years from now – when Mugen dies, she'll probably want to visit his grave. It's a big deal there, to travel to a grave and honor the dead with a ceremony. I don't know how soon that will be – hopefully not for a long time."

"You didn't seem so miserable. I got your letters."

"I was not miserable – not once we were settled in. In fact, I found myself reluctant to leave, but I don't feel that way so much now – seeing you, speaking English. And when I see Pemberley – well, I'll have no regrets as to not extending the stay. I want to see my sisters marry. I want to have my children born in England. Despite my footwear, I am no Oriental." He added, "Also, I don't care for their diet."

"That bad?"

"Most of it was quite good – except the lack of meat and good liquor."

"Ah. The essentials of an Englishman's diet." He saw a servant waving him over, and went, speaking in Italian. Their conversation quickly became harried and Charles began shouting orders, but the servant insisted on repeating whatever it was he was saying.

Compelled to intervene, Geoffrey stood up. "Charles? What is it?"

"Nothing," he said in a harsh tone, then returned to his argument with the servant. Again and again, Geoffrey felt like he should say something to quell the argument, but he held himself back. Eventually, the servant turned away and Charles staggered back and collapsed on the chair.

"Charles? What is it?"

"It's nothing," he said, though it clearly wasn't. There were tears in his voice. "Frederico is gone."

"Who?"

"My manservant. He knows I'm... leaving, so he left my employment – just now. He's already gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye." He shook his head. "I should have listened to him."

"I don't understand. Did you owe him money?" That wouldn't be right. Even if he didn't, the servant would have stayed for his last paycheck, surely. "Charles... does he have something on you?"

"It's not what you think."

"It's about money."

"You're such a Darcy!" Charles shouted. "It's not always about money."

Geoffrey wasn't sure how to respond to that. Master-servant relations always were about money and often nothing else. At least, that was how it was in a properly-kept house, and Charles knew how to keep a house. He'd been schooled in that, to take over Kirkland. "Is he extorting you over something, and you refused to pay? Is that what you fought about last night?"

Charles looked up in horror. "Last night? What did you hear?"

"Nothing, but I saw you in the garden. I just happened to be in the library – I didn't mean to eavesdrop, and I'm not capable of it." He gestured to his ear. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You're sorry?" Charles stood to face him. Geoffrey could not remember seeing him so livid. "You've shown up with no announcements, spied on me and my servants, and questioned me every step of the way about things which are none of your business, heir to a great estate or not! If I wanted your help, I would have asked for it! If I thought you could even begin to understand my problems, I would explain them! But you don't, and you never will, so why don't you just leave me alone?" He stamped off, pulling open his own door, as all the servants had fled the scene. "Why did you have to come and ruin everything?"

He did not give Geoffrey a chance to respond; he slammed the door behind him before a single syllable could be uttered.

... Next Chapter - The Sorrows of Young Bingley


	4. The Sorrows of Young Bingley

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

**Note:** This chapter contains disturbing material.** Rated M for mature.** Though, to be honest, if you made it through the dead baby hallucinations from story 9, this shouldn't be a problem.

Bonus to anyone to can guess at the literary allusion in the title of this chapter. Without using Google, thank you very much!

* * *

Chapter 4 – The Sorrows of Young Bingley

"He really said that?" Georgie said in a whisper. She had been sitting with Alison as she ate, but Geoffrey usurped her.

"Do you think we should leave?"

"Of course not! He didn't really mean that."

"You didn't hear him. It sounded like he did."

She huffed. "Then it means he needs us more than ever. He's just not able to say it. Geoffrey, don't doubt yourself. You were just looking out for him."

"He won't explain anything. There's some kind of problem with the staff – "

"I've noticed that. Why are all of the staff who attend us women? And why have a few of them fled? They would stay for their last paycheck, wouldn't they?"

"Or just stay for the next owners. Usually the staff stays on, at least to close up the house. I'm telling you, it makes no sense. Unless – "

" – they know something we wouldn't want to know," she said. "We should tell him that it's all right. Whatever he's been doing, however bad his debts are, he can leave them behind and follow-up on them later, in England. We're not inspectors. We just want him to come home." She put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll talk to him at dinner. Set everything straight. Be supportive but firm."

"Yes."

They sat with Alison as she ate, and then retired to their chambers to dress for dinner. Geoffrey had a different man give him something to wear for dinner than the previous night, and since the servant only spoke Italian, Geoffrey could not expect an explanation, nor did he demand one. He waited until he was allowed and then joined his wife to escort her to dinner. She was wearing an Italian gown, which he commented on being very fine.

"These are getting tight on me," she said, putting her hand on her waist, and he couldn't help but smile. "Oh, stop it."

Their lightened mood did not last long. They found Charles improperly already seated at the head of the table, slumped into the fine chair. His eyes were reddened and there was an empty liquor bottle beside him. The servant came to fill his wine glass, and he shooed him away with something that did not sound polite.

"You're drunk!"

Charles giggled and looked up at his sister. "Thank you for the astute observation." He gestured. "Please sit, Georgie. I can't – can't – I can't have you stand. I can't have anything else on my conscience."

She took a seat beside him, but Geoffrey stood over her. "What is on your conscience, Charles?"

"Not even a word in? Just coming in swinging, aren't you?" He grumbled. "I suppose I deserve it. I deserve everything that's coming to me. So drag me back to England and at least let Eliza trade in the heartbreak of having me lost for the heartbreak of having me for a brother. She sent you here to do that, did she not?"

"She wants you to be happy," Georgie said calmly.

Charles giggled again. "That I cannot grant her. And I would grant her anything within my power, but this is not. I will never be happy, Georgie. There are no such possibilities for me."

"You're talking nonsense," Georgie replied. Geoffrey was happy that she took the lead, because she might be more effective than him at dealing with her brother. "I'll chalk it up to you being isolated and drunk, because you're not making sense and part of you knows that. Why in the world would you be unhappy? What hasn't been granted to you? You have loving parents, sisters, a brother – "

" – who came short of vowing never to speak to me again."

"Why?" Geoffrey demanded. "What happened between you and Edmund? Is this about Kirkland?"

"Is that all you can think about?" Charles said, standing up – though he needed to balance himself with a hand on the table to do it. "Estates and money and inheritance and all that? Is that the scope of your manly thoughts, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire? What about the whole scope of human emotions? Sadness? Longing? Love?"

"How would you know? I've never seen you with anyone. Except that whore – "

"Frederick made me do that!" Charles said, waving the bottle at Geoffrey. "I didn't want to and he made me. But... but I don't resent him for it, he didn't understand, while you were all high-and-mighty, there was only one for you and it was Georgiana even though we couldn't say it to your face without you growling like a wounded beast, when you couldn't possibly imagine that there was only one for me! That I was capable of waiting for love, and finding it, and then losing it! All you wanted to do was get drunk and mope about Georgie without speaking her name." He spat, somewhat unintentionally. "Other people can feel pain!"

"I wasn't suggesting – You are in love?"

Charles staggered back. "I was."

"What happened?" Georgie extended her hand, but Charles pulled his back and away. "Did she marry someone else?"

He shook his head fervently.

"Did she die?"

It was then that Charles dropped the bottle and collapsed in his chair, weeping. They were almost afraid to disturb him, and since no servants were rushing in to aid any of them, the Darcys remained where they were, until Geoffrey finally ventured close enough to put a hand on Charles' shoulder. "I'm sorry. I truly am. I had no idea. I do know – "

"You don't! You don't know anything!"

"Charles, be fair," Georgie said, with a bit of authority in her voice. "It's not as if we've never lost anyone. I took him all the way to Japan to get over Christian's death."

Geoffrey turned to his wife. It was the first time he'd ever heard her speak their son's name, but not be affected by it, so concentrated as she was on Charles. "I was miserable, don't you remember? I shut everyone out, even Geoffrey. But I shouldn't have. It seemed the natural thing to do, but it wasn't the best thing to do. And I was hurting everyone else by doing it." She softened her tone again. "Come home, Charles. Tell Eliza what's bothering you, and begin again."

He looked at her with some glimmer of hope in his eyes, but then it dimmed. "You can take me back, if you want. You might as well. The proper thing to do is break her heart quickly, and not have it die a slow death. Yes, that's it. Do it quick." He stood up again, this time with more success. "I'll hold my head high, if you like. I'll put on a show. If that's what will make you happy."

"No, now _you_ don't understand," Georgie said. "We want you to be happy. All of this has been for you."

"Don't say that," he said, his voice cracking. "I know you mean it, but at least do not say it. I am so... " He looked for his liquor, but remembered it was smashed on the floor, so he took up his cup of wine instead and knocked it back. "It all weighs me down. I've tried to mend my ways, I've prayed, I've cut myself off – but it never works. I am still tainted. I cannot remove it. No miracles for Charles Bingley." He shook his head. "I cannot do it. I cannot break my sister's heart. That is the truth of it – why I fled. And I can't break yours either, both of you."

"Charles – "

He bowed to them. "Let me have a little peace, will you not? I know you wish to lecture me about duties to my family, and how they worry for me, but I know all that. How could I not? So the argument is won already, and we need not engage in the actual semantics. Tomorrow, I promise, all will be seen to." He raised his empty glass to them, and stumbled out of the room.

Geoffrey hesitated. Georgie looked at him. "Follow him, idiot."

"What are you going to do?"

"What do think? _Eat_." There was still food set on the table for a proper dinner, and it did smell good, even though it was cooling rapidly. "I'm famished."

Geoffrey nodded and exited the same way Charles had gone. It took him some time and a few confusing direction from servants, but he finally found him in Alison's room, sitting with her on his knee, not saying anything. "Alison."

She was dozing in her uncle's arms. "Papa?"

"Is everything all right?"

"What?"

"I just wanted to see my goddaughter," Charles said. "To tell her how much I loved her. Does she understand that?"

"I love you, Uncle Charles," she said, in response.

He smiled weakly, and stroked her hair. "I'll always be here to protect you, even if it feels like I'm not. That's what a godfather is – your extra father, just in case."

"Just in case?" She could only repeat back his words to him to say she didn't understand.

"In case of... I don't know. Anything. It's unconditional." He stood up, taking her with him. "Now to bed with you."

She kissed him on the cheek as he set her down in her bed. Geoffrey tucked her in, and gave her another kiss. "Good night, darling."

"Good night, Papa. Good night, Uncle Charles." She clutched her new doll, and watched them leave.

As Geoffrey shut the door, Charles grabbed him by his coat, the look of desperation still in his eyes. "Please leave me in peace."

"What about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow... tomorrow is tomorrow. I will travel home with you." He looked around. "Where is my sister?"

"Eating."

"Good. I only want the best for her. I don't want you to lose another child. I don't ever want to see her hurt again."

"Charles," Geoffrey said calmly, "sometimes it cannot be avoided. She did not abandon her feelings about the stillbirth. She accepted them. We are going to be hurt in this life."

"'All life is suffering.' It's a Buddhist phrase."

"It doesn't mean it's true. I will tell you that it's not. I am very happy with my life. There are moments that I don't care for, and moments that are terrible, but on the whole, I am a happy man."

"I envy you," Charles said, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "I wish... I wish so much could be different."

"It can be."

"I wish it could." He released his hold on Geoffrey's coat. "I'm sorry for ruining your evening. Please go, and eat with your wife. You must be hungry."

"Tomorrow – "

"Tomorrow we will all go home together," he said, and disappeared down the hallway. Geoffrey did not stop him.

* * *

Dinner was short and tense for Geoffrey. He was not particularly hungry, no matter how good the food was. The servants did return to serve the two of them, and he sat for Georgiana, who needed to eat, and managed to take some comfort in Charles' decision.

"How could I not have known, that he loved and lost? How could we all have missed it? Everyone knows everyone else's business." He slumped in his chair. "I cannot imagine if I lost you – especially not now. It's impossible. What he must be going through."

"He could have told someone."

"He told us."

"Eventually." She finished up her jellied roll. "I'll check on Alison and then see Charles, if he wants to be seen."

He nodded and took another brandy, carrying it into his chambers. Even though it was early, he was exhausted, and began to disrobe. He heard movement in the outer chambers of the room, and Georgie entered, her gown removed. She joined him in bed, and they held each other for a while.

"Alison is sleeping," she said. "Charles will not be seen."

He nodded.

"It's almost cruel, taking him home like this. We might as well have him in shackles from the way he talks."

"He needs it."

"I know, but it's still an awful thing. He's so miserable, and he can't see the light at the end of it."

He had observations, but he kept them to himself. He was familiar with the situation, so similar to Georgie's after the death of their son, but he didn't want to say it. Everything he said today just seemed to hurt someone.

"He did promise?"

"He said he would come."

She took that as a positive to her question, and rolled on her side. He lay beside her for a while, finally finding a sort of peace brought on by sheer exhaustion.

* * *

Geoffrey woke to a shifting sensation. He forced himself awake. Georgiana was sitting up, her legs draped over the side of the bed. He opened his eyes to find no light except the moon, and no noise, not even crickets. "Are you all right?" His voice was so heavy with sleep it was barely intelligible.

"I'm just a bit ill," she said.

"Pain?"

"No."

"Do you want me to get you some tea? They must have some ginger about here. I tasted some in the duck last night."

She nodded. He kissed her hand and rose. He lacked a proper dressing gown, so he put on his long kimono and sandals. "I'll get you something if I have to boil it myself."

"Thank you."

He opened the door to his outer chambers, and then the hallway. There was no servant at the door, or one in the hallways at all. He had to hunt around in the darkness before he found something to light his own lantern. Everyone was asleep.

The place was not too large, and he found the kitchen easily enough. There was not a soul present, or a fire – just the doused embers of one in the oven. Grumbling to himself, he found what seemed to be the servants' quarters, and knocked hard on the door. "Hello?"

There was no noise. He waited, then remembering his wife's tortured face in the moonlight, grabbed the handle and found the door unlocked.

The servants' quarters were abandoned. The beds were empty, the fires doused.

"They've all gone, Signor Darcy."

The voice startled him so that he almost dropped the candlestick, and had to grab it with the other hand to steady it. It was the housekeeper. "I apologize – I haven't got your name."

"Sestino, Signor."

"Madame Sestino, what is going on?"

"The servants have fled."

"Why?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "I have to tell Charles."

"I've not seen the master, Signor."

It was the dead of night. _Why would she have seen him? Maybe Charles might have been roused by the commotion._ "It's dark. Can you show me to his chambers?"

"Of course, Signor."

She had her own flame, and she led him down the hallway, back to the main house and the double doors that could only lead to the master's chambers. They were locked, but she had a set of keys, and quickly selected the right one to unlock the door.

Nothing seemed amiss. Things were a bit messy, but it was understandable considering the loss of one's manservant. _He never really explained that, did he?_ Geoffrey thought. "His bedchamber?"

She pointed, and he opened the last door to the massive chamber, fit for a pope or Italian noble. Charles was asleep in his bed, but he wasn't dressed for sleep. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn at dinner, and he was above the covers.

"Charles," Geoffrey said, and nudged him. "Charles, the servants are all gone." He nudged him harder, but still did not get a response. "Charles?" He shook him, but Charles did not wake. His skin was cold and clammy. "_Charles_." He pulled the jacket apart and felt his chest. There was a heartbeat and he was still breathing, but it was slow. "Madame Sestino! Madame Sestino!" She came running into the room. "Charles is sick."

"Give me room, please, Signor." She pushed him aside and touched Charles' forehead, and then opened his mouth. She crossed herself. "No – I didn't think he would ever do it, _Il Mio Dio!_"

"Do what?"

She shoved the various picture frames and other objects on the dresser aside and found the one she wanted – an emptied jar. She held it to Geoffrey's nose, and he took a whiff. "Oh!" It was foul, and not familiar, but very acidic, like vinegar.

"It's rat poison," she said. "Deadly if you drink a lot of it, but not quick."

"What?"

"I can try to make an antidote." She crossed herself again. "When he ordered it, I just said yes. I didn't think, then! He wasn't so desperate. But there may be an antidote, a remedy in case children drink it. Sit him up and I'll make it!"

He didn't understand. He knelt on the bed, dragging the unresponsive Charles into a sitting position with his back against the headboard as he was told, but he didn't understand. Nothing she said made any sense to him. Had she been speaking another language? How could she be so mistaken?

"Charles," he said, slapping him a little on the cheek. "Please wake up, or I don't know what she's going to make you drink." He kept slapping him, but it did no good. It did open Charles' mouth, and the foul smell of the drink was on his lips. He had drunken –

- he had drunken the poison.

Signora Sestino was quick despite her girth, and came with two items, one a small glass bottle, and the other a jug of water. "We have to make him drink. Quickly now. It will go down easier with water – and the water would dilute the poison."

She began carefully feeding the contents of the bottle into Charles' mouth, where it just pooled under his tongue. "He will absorb it," she said. Next came the water, which she told Geoffrey to pour as she massaged Charles' neck, forcing him to swallow. Finally he did respond, to try to spit it back out. "Shut his mouth!"

"He'll choke!"

"If he doesn't swallow, he will die!"

Geoffrey did as told, holding his hand firmly over Charles' mouth. "I won't let you die. I _won't_. So you had better come back up."

Charles did swallow with a great deal of coughing, and they fed him more of the antidote, followed by more water. He was not awake, and did not do anything to obstruct them from their work. He did try to resist the water, but they did not relent, and he eventually swallowed the whole jug – quite a large amount – after all of the antidote was gone, and he was just coughing up air now from his confused throat. Geoffrey took his hand away, and Charles' body dropped like a rag doll against the headboard. There were no more spasms, just an unsteady breathing.

"Is the danger past? Will he live?"

"I don't know, Signor. It depends on when he drank the poison. I think if he responded – it was soon enough. We can only pray."

He felt Charles' pulse again – still slow, but still present. His breathing settled down into a normal pattern, and Geoffrey ordered the lamps in the room lit as he pulled up his eyelids. Charles' eyes were rolled back into his head, and he did not respond to anything Geoffrey did. "Should we make him drink more?"

"We'll wait. If he does not respond, yes."

He took hold of Charles' hand. "He said – you said he was talking of this?"

"I overheard – when he was drunk. He was reading a letter from his sister. He always drinks when he reads a letter from his sister. That poor woman!"

"Why would he do something like this?" But it was too personal a question. She might have tried to answer, but he interrupted, "Why did all of the servants flee?"

"I suppose – because you would have questioned them."

"They knew he was going to try something?"

"They weren't going to chance it. They don't want to hang."

"But you didn't flee."

"He doesn't deserve to die. He can still be saved," she said. "Besides, I've committed no crime."

"You supplied him with poison!"

"That is not illegal."

"So?"

"Sodomy is. It used to be the axe, but they hang you now, I think."

He had no words to speak. More accurately, he had too many words, all coming at him at once. Eventually he formed the sentence. "What was going on in this house?"

"I heard him tell Frederico he thought it was better to die than for you to find out. Frederico didn't know his place, lover or not, and called him a coward. Then he abandoned him."

"I still don't understand. What are you saying?"

"Signor Darcy – your cousin is a sodomite."

... Next Chapter - Empty Chairs at Empty Tables


	5. Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

**Note:** This chapter contains **disturbing material and frank discussions of sexuality**.** Rated M for mature.** Though, to be honest, if you made it through the dead baby hallucinations from story 9, this shouldn't be a problem.

Yup, Charles III is gay. And the situation (the less-immediate matter of his sexuality, not the events of the previous chapter) won't be wrapped up so quickly, though he has nowhere to go but up for the moment.

The last chapter's title, for those of you who didn't get it, was an allusion to the novel _The Sorrows of Young Werther_, a famous 18th-century story about suicide by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. This chapter's title allusion should be more obvious.

* * *

Chapter 5 - Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

He tightened his grip around Charles' limp hand. At least it was still warm. It meant Charles was alive. "It's not true. I don't believe it."

"It is, Signor."

"This is Charles Bingley! The third! My cousin! My brother-in-law!" He knew he was shouting and he didn't care. "I grew up with this man! We went to school together! He was always so sweet and innocent, and he loved to dance, and he was friends with so many... people I didn't know." The sinking feeling in his gut was almost painful in a way. "He told me tonight he had a lover – I thought it was a mistress – who died. Did he ever say the name?"

"It was a man – a word for man. Goy?"

"Guy. Guy Peterson?" He stared at her, and she just nodded shamefully. Guy Peterson, the man who'd been at his twenty-first birthday party, the one with Georgiana. The one who died in a hunting accident after graduation. Charles was so shook up about it. "Eliza wrote he tried to visit the grave with some friends from college, but Guy's father wouldn't let them. His father must have known." He shook his head. "My wife – how can I tell her?" He tugged on Charles' arm. "How do I tell her, Charles? First that you tried to kill yourself, and then _why?_" He'd forgotten. "My wife! Please, can you boil some tea with a little ginger in it and bring it to my bedchamber, then calmly tell my wife after she's had a bit that something has happened and she should wait for me outside these doors?"

She curtseyed. "Of course, Signor."

She was only gone a moment before Charles came to life, though not in a way that Geoffrey was pleased to deal with. The antidote was beginning its intended effect, to remove the poison from his system – forcibly. Geoffrey barely had time to grab the chamber pot as Charles began to heave. He did not speak, just gasped, and said some things incoherently, but was never fully awake. Geoffrey had to keep him upright, which was not a pleasant ordeal - but then again, none of this was.

Fortunately Signora Sestino returned quickly enough to help him. "Keep my wife outside," he barked, and she shut and locked the doors, then assisted him. It took nearly an hour before they were sure Charles was done, or at least too exhausted to continue. Geoffrey laid him back on the bed, keeping him upright. Charles was out cold, but he was still alive. "Should we try more?"

"If he gets worse."

"Can you stay with him while I tell my wife?" He wiped off his kimono, which barely did the job. She nodded, and handed him the master set of keys, with one held up for him to use.

Geoffrey took a deep breath before unlocking the door, knowing full well that Georgie would come charging at him, which she promptly did. "What's going on? Why did you lock me out? Where are – "

"Shhh." He blocked her with his body from getting past him long enough to shut the door, and had to push her down onto the settee. "It's all right. Everything's going to be all right."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a baby. Where is my brother?"

"He's asleep." He sat down beside her and took her hand. "Signora Sestino is watching him."

"What's wrong with him?"

He shook his head, as if that would settle his racing mind. "So many things, but for now, I think he'll be all right. Georgie – I don't know how to say it."

Her voice lost some of its edge. Maybe she saw his own haggard condition. "Then just say it."

"Charles... attempted... to end his life. With rat poison." He had to keep talking, or she would react with more questions that he was going to have to answer. "I went looking for him after I noticed the servants had fled, and I found him unconscious, with a bottle of it by his bed. The housekeeper knew a remedy, but it made him very sick. He's resting now." He looked in her frightened eyes. "I didn't want you to see it. Please understand. _I_ didn't want to see it."

"Why would he – "

"Georgie, do you remember Guy Peterson? He came to my birthday party at Cambridge. He was the dramatist."

She nodded through her tears. "He died after graduation. Charles was so upset about it."

He sighed, preparing himself. "Charles and Guy were lovers."

He knew it was coming. He tried to dodge, but the blow connected all the same, right in his jaw. Any harder and it would have smashed it, but she held back that much as he fell down.

"_How dare you!_ Geoffrey Darcy, how dare you even _imply_ that my brother is a godless sodomite!" She stood over him, her hand still closed into a fist.

"I wish it wasn't true," he said, not bothering to get up from the floor. She would just hit him again. "I wish the housekeeper was lying."

"She is!"

"I don't think so. Oh G-d, I don't want her to be telling the truth, but I just know – "

"You don't know anything!" she screamed, and kicked the door open, charging into Charles' room. "Wake up my brother!"

"Signora, he is sleeping."

Georgie climbed onto the other side of the bed and shook Charles' still form, then slapped him on the face. He did not wake. "No! It's not true!" She shook him again. "Wake up and tell them it's not true!"

"Signora – "

"Don't interrupt her," Geoffrey warned the housekeeper as he entered, holding his jaw. "She won't harm Charles more than he already has."

Georgie gave him a cold stare and went back to shaking her brother before she eventually tired and collapsed into his chest. "Don't leave me, Charles. I love you so much. Whatever it was – we can work it out. We can fix it."

"Signora Sestino," Geoffrey said, "may we have some more tea? And perhaps a bit of brandy, if you have any, for myself." He could think of nothing better than a drink as he pulled Georgie off her brother and into his own arms. He touched Charles' flesh, and found it warm. They could hope. "Shhh. He's going to be all right. He's already better."

"Tell me it was a mistake."

"I think it was a mistake," he said, "but it doesn't mean it didn't happen."

"Damn you, lie to me!" She pounded her fists into his chest, though not particularly hard. "Just this once!"

He shook his head. He wanted to comply, but he couldn't betray her like that. It would only make it worse later, when Charles woke, and they learned everything he tried to keep from them.

It was dark and cold in the dead of night. As they watched over Charles, Geoffrey allowed himself the small hope that the housekeeper was wrong. He did not know another way to make it through the night.

* * *

By sunrise, they were both exhausted. Only tea kept them awake, though at Georgie's insistence, Geoffrey had a bit of brandy and dozed for a few hours in the armchair. When he woke, it was obvious that Georgie was drained, and needed sleep. Charles was right in worrying for her condition. She was a tough woman in most respects, but he was not willing to leave this to chance. "Come." He escorted her back to her chambers, and her protests were meek. She was quickly asleep, and he returned to Charles' chambers, leaving instructions with the housekeeper that if his daughter woke, to tell her Charles was sleeping in.

How would he ever tell Alison? Of course, he wouldn't. It was the right time to lie.

Geoffrey sat in the armchair, waiting for his cousin to wake. Over the night his condition had improved, not gotten worse, so they were beginning to breathe easier about the home remedy.

Charles Bingley woke uneasily, and to be sick. When he was done he was disoriented, and could barely stand. Geoffrey stripped him of his overcoat and waistcoat, put a dressing gown over his shoulders, and set him down on the chair across from him. He didn't say anything. He had too many thoughts in his head to choose from, and Charles did not look that aware. He sat dazed in his chair for quite a few minutes before speaking. "Geoffrey?"

"Yes."

"Where – "

"Your servants are gone. All of them; except the housekeeper."

Charles nodded. It was not clear if he understood him.

"They fled last night. They didn't stay for their last paycheck, or to close up the house. I thought that was odd, so I came to check on you, and found you in time. It was rat poison, wasn't it?"

His cousin blinked slowly and said, "I don't remember what kind of poison it was. I just knew it was deadly."

"You're lucky. Your housekeeper knew a remedy, which is why your stomach is so upset."

Charles put a hand on his forehead, and slumped further down in the chair.

"Charles Bingley, what the hell were you thinking?"

Charles had no answer for him. He kept escaping his gaze. He put effort into it.

"You selfish bastard. It was bad enough what you put us through to save you – Georgie's nearly passed out just from hearing the news. Can you even imagine what we would have gone through if we'd discovered you a corpse? And you said you didn't want to break anyone's heart."

"I didn't."

"Then you've lost all your reasoning. You can't even imagine what it's like to have a child die – and ours didn't have time to live. How would your father manage? To say nothing of Eliza? Or your mother? Or any of us? And Georgie..." He squeezed his fingers together. "If she lost the child in grief, I would have cursed you to hell. If she does, I still will, but I'll send you there myself."

Without hesitation, Charles said, "Do it."

Geoffrey could not respond to that.

"I know my death will hurt everyone, and I know it's the coward's way out, but compared to a life of misery, or possible exposure – well, then I am a coward. I am a coward, a liar, and a fool. G-d already hates me; why should you be exempt?" He looked up at Geoffrey with haunted eyes. "There is nothing for me. No happiness, no salvation. My only hope was to spare my family the agony of discovering my nature, and now I don't even have that."

"So it's true?"

"Of course it's true!" He had the strength to shout now, though the color went out of his face afterwards. "Why the hell do you think I'm in Italy? Do you really think I despise my family? That I never want to spend time with them? That I never want to see my sisters? I've gotten every one of Eliza's letters. I tried to go home and reform myself; I really did. But apparently she told you the result of that. But I couldn't tell her. I know what would happen."

"You assume – "

"Do you know how Guy died?"

Geoffrey had a sinking feeling. "You said it was a hunting accident."

Charles had a sick laugh. "You could call it that. He was so brave. When we graduated he said he wasn't afraid of anyone judging him. He was engaged by family arrangement, but he wanted to break it off. He wouldn't lie his way to the altar and into a marriage he couldn't be less interested in. So after Cambridge, he went home, and told his father. They went out back, to admire the new work on the grounds, and his father shot him in the back of the head with a hunting rifle. Like a dog that you put down, because he's old and sick. He shot him like a dog."

"Your father would never – "

"No, of course not. He would have Uncle Darcy do it."

"How dare you – "

"You can imagine it. Upstanding Mr. Darcy, with a declared deviant of the worst kind in the family? The next mistress of Pemberley's _brother?_ If the shire wouldn't hang me for lack of evidence, someone else would." His voice dissolved. "They wouldn't let me go to the funeral. Mr. Peterson was on to any friends from Cambridge. I loved him, and I couldn't go to his funeral. I can't even visit his grave."

Geoffrey had to find a reason. It was the only way he could grapple with it. "It was just a phase."

"Yes, that's what I thought in Eton, when they did the thing with the rod – you did it, too, didn't you?"

Geoffrey stood, and grabbed his cousin, shaking him. "It was an ordeal! Something to get through, and never mention again!"

"And the headmaster, with his whip, when he had any excuse – "

"We were boys! Eton is a sacred institution and every great man in this country has been through it. My father, Frederick, Danny – and we all got through the long hours and the disgusting rooms and the townsfolk who cheated us, and the weird little rituals they did to scare the younger boys. It was just tradition."

"It wasn't for me."

Geoffrey shoved Charles back into his chair and sat down again.

"If you want the truth – and you've been demanding it since you got here – then so be it," Charles said. "I thought it was a phase. I hoped, prayed that it was. I did all right for a little while, but I was so lonely. And then I met the dramatists. Some of them were interested in drama, but some had just transferred in because we all had the same interests. I was afraid, but I was so miserable, denying how I felt all the time, and then I met Guy. And he was the same, but more confident. He was a little nervous, and a little scared, but he was sure of himself. He would not deny who he was. He taught me how to love."

"He seduced you! He molested you!"

"No, the groundskeeper at Eton did that," he said. "I let him. I realize now, looking back, that I led him on, made it happen to myself, because I wanted it – "

"I don't want to hear this!"

"Then why do you keep asking?" Charles shouted back. "Why didn't you let me die?"

"Because I didn't believe it."

"Really. You didn't believe it." It was not a question. "You didn't notice anything amiss about my relationship with Frederico, named after the cousin I had a boyhood crush on –"

"_Oh G-d_."

" – or my refusal to court women, even though I loved balls and dancing. If anything, you saw me weep at the news that Frederico abandoned me. I assume that if Mr. Reynolds left in the middle of the day, you would be more confused than broken-hearted."

Geoffrey snarled, "You leave Reynolds out of this! You leave _me_ out of this!"

"So now you want me alive, but nothing to do with me? Just like Edmund. And the rest of them will line up to turn their backs on me." He didn't wait for Geoffrey to ask. "Edmund, poor, innocent Edmund. He was always a step ahead of me in cleverness, a step behind in any kind of emotional connection to anyone. How he found a woman I have no idea. She probably seduced him and he fancies himself in love because he doesn't know the meaning of the word. No, Edmund didn't have to figure it out. He was able to grasp the concept when he caught me with the new stable boy. Adam was his name. Edmund only learned his name so he could come up with a reason to convince Father to fire him that wouldn't sound suspicious."

Geoffrey got up again and began to pace. "We'll get you help. We'll take you to a doctor."

"I've been to doctors. They all want to bleed me. Like vampires, they want my blood. Do you know one of them wanted to take out part of my brain? He said I wouldn't be smart, but I wouldn't feel anything – good or bad – and the urges would be gone. G-d, they think I'm mad!"

"You are mad! But you can be treated!"

"Yes, because psychical doctors are so successful. Your family has a long history of success with mental infirmary."

Charles must have known Geoffrey's response to that, but he didn't move at all. He was just sitting there, waiting for it to come when Geoffrey decked him, knocking back the chair with the force of it. Charles rolled over on the ground, holding a hand over his eyes.

"You'll only do that because Georgiana isn't here."

"That's right. She isn't," he said, dragging Charles up by his collar. "Promise me you will never speak – "

"I won't. You're not so sacred. If anything, if we were more open about it, George would probably be in a better condition. Instead he hides until he's so sick we can all see the symptoms. People can only suffer when it adheres to propriety. If you weren't so damn high on your horse, you could take better care – "

Geoffrey hit him again. Not really over George, or maybe it was. He wasn't sure. Charles at least managed to block some of the blow with his forearm.

"You have no understanding of George's condition! How dare you categorize yourself with him. He's ill and you're just – "

"A pervert? A godless Madge cull? Then why take me to a doctor? What's to be fixed? Hang me and be done with it!"

Geoffrey punched against Charles' stomach so hard he hit the floor and rolled over, coughing. Geoffrey staggered back a bit, attempting to gather himself. Seriously harming Charles would only make the situation worse, if only because he would have to explain it to Georgie. "I want to help you," he said, though even to him, it sounded pathetic. "I wish it wasn't this way."

"Do you think I asked for this?"

"A gentleman holds himself back from vices and debauchery – "

"Bollocks! Who fills the gambling clubs and the whorehouses? Who drinks all of that expensive fine liquor by the bottle? By your strict definition, I would say the only gentleman I know is my father, who at least had the good sense not to murder his brother!"

"Don't make me do this," Geoffrey said. He went to kick him but, seeing Charles curled into a ball to shield himself, he turned and kicked the chair with his bare foot.

"The only reason you haven't killed me yet is because Georgie would never forgive you."

He was alarmed to discover he could not immediately bring himself to deny it.

Charles got to his knees. "I swear to G-d, I wish it wasn't this way. I've spent half my life resisting every natural impulse which everyone but me readily indulges in – with a wife, mistress, whatever they please. I went to doctors; I went to church. I have a friend who mutilated himself. Can you imagine it?" His voice was pleading. "Almost all of my friends from college are gone. Hanged, run off to the colonies to escape, dead of some disease from those filthy houses – or miserable in a marriage that brings them no pleasure at all. And the latter are the lucky ones." He shook his head. "I don't want it to be this way, but it is. It cannot be changed. Hold back your very ungentlemanly anger for a moment, and imagine a life that promised you no happiness. Either you could have some bit of pleasure for yourself and be cast out of society as a result, or castrate yourself in the required marriage to a wife who deserves someone better. With all that G-d has given you, are still capable of imagining someone who has no hope for the future?"

Geoffrey sat down on the edge of the bed. He couldn't keep hitting Charles, even though part of him still wanted to. It wouldn't make anything better. And Charles – despite everything – didn't deserve it. "You can't put off your return any longer."

"I know."

"I won't tell a soul, when we arrive," he said adding, "if you make me a promise."

"What is it?"

"You tell Eliza everything. She deserves to know." He rubbed his head. "And then... I don't know." He stood, and walked to the door, not looking at Charles. "I have to check on my wife."

Charles offered him the mercy of saying nothing as Geoffrey left, closing the door behind him. He was familiar with heartbreak, so he knew it when he felt it – that physical pain in his chest that threatened to strangle him.

He did not know how to make it go away.

... Next Chapter - Armistice


	6. Armistice

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 6 – Armistice

"Papa!"

Geoffrey wasn't sure how someone could bring light and dread into his world, but at that moment, Alison Darcy succeeded. "Good morning."

"May I see Uncle Charles? Is he awake yet?"

"Uncle Charles isn't feeling very well. He ate too much last night. You'll see him later."

"I want to go swimming."

"Maybe later." His mind was already elsewhere, but Alison prevented his escape by tugging on his sleeve. She didn't ask a question. Her expression did it for her. "I know it's hard when everyone is sick, but you have to let them rest. We'll have fun later – I promise."

Signora Sestino appeared at just the right time. "Child, come with me. Let your father take care of things."

Alison didn't understand the housekeeper with her heavy accent, but she went along anyway. Geoffrey waved, then proceeded to his chambers. Georgie was awake, and dressed in her kimono. She had no one to lace her into a dress. She sat in the armchair on their balcony, half-facing out.

"How do you feel?"

"How am I supposed to feel?" She looked at him. "You were going to kick him."

He looked down. His toes were bloodied from kicking the chair instead. "He said some things – "

"He tried to kill himself! Maybe he's not in the best of spirits."

Geoffrey sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the washing basin and setting it at his feet as he removed his sandals. "I don't know what to do. I don't think there's a thing I can say that won't upset you."

"I'm not made of china."

He only had to give her a look as a response, as he placed his foot in the bowl.

"I can take it. I have to. He's my brother." She bit her nails. "My baby brother."

"Edmund has already cut him off. He told him not to come to the wedding."

"You're thinking of it? How dare you! He's your brother-in-law. He's _Charles_."

"I know who he is." He mumbled, "I thought I knew who he is."

"He's the same person! Just... we didn't know _this_. About him." She so desperately wanted to have hope. "We can help him."

"He's already inclined against it. He doesn't think anyone can change him."

"But he always did it alone, didn't he? Not with someone who loved him?"

All he could say to that was, "This is true."

"He has to tell Eliza."

"I made him promise."

"Well, then you've done something good." She rose, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Where are you going?"

"To see my brother. Where else?"

********************************************

Georgie didn't know what to say. She had not prepared a speech. She had thoughts in her head, but none of them seemed good enough.

Mugen wasn't a sodomite, but he wasn't discriminating, and he had loved Miyoshi. She never gave it a second thought. It was part of who he was. How could she not allow her own brother that same acceptance? How could she be such a hypocrite?

She knocked on the door. "Come." She entered to find Charles in his armchair, drinking fresh tea. He did not rise to greet her; he looked exhausted. One of his eyes was blackened and there was dried blood on the corners of his mouth. He merely nodded to her in his disheveled way. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. "More than I had to, anyway."

She took the seat across from him. "Charles, you're my brother. What could possibly hurt me more than your death?"

He stammered, but no real words came out.

"You ran away to Italy to find some happiness. Did you find it?"

He shook his head.

"Then it's time to go home. What you've done in the past - "

"It's not just in the past. I can't make it go away. Georgie, I'm sorry, but it's who I am. I can't deny that, but I don't see how I could ever be happy in England."

"You're not willing to try?"

"I have."

She played with her mala beads. "This time you don't have to do it alone. You have me. You'll have Eliza."

"I can't tell her. It'll break her heart."

"No, what you're doing now is breaking her heart. Your death would break her heart. But being honest... do you really have so little faith in your sister?"

He looked ready to cry. He had been for a while, so it probably wasn't hard to start again, if he was so compelled.

"The servants fled. Now what are you supposed to do?" She got up, and picked up his washing basin, and a spare cloth. Wetting it, she applied it to his mouth and then his eye, wiping the bits of blood away. "Why did the maids run?"

"I don't know. Maybe they didn't want to answer for the others."

"Maybe it was just the fashionable thing to do."

He chuckled, then hissed as she pressed against his bruise. "Ow!"

"Don't worry; Geoffrey's bleeding, too. The idiot kicked the chair with his toes. Now hold still. The last thing we want is an infection. There." She put the basin aside. "All clean. I'll see if there's a steak around for the bruising. And _you're_ coming up with the excuse for Alison."

"I didn't mean to hurt her. If – "

"No more ifs. I can't take it. What happened happened, and thank goodness for it, because it could have been so much worse. We could have lost you, and I won't give you up until you're old and grey and smell bad." She hugged him from behind, letting him rest his head in her elbow. "I love you, Charles. Nothing can change that."

He was crying, but it was all right. She didn't stop him. She just listened to his sobs, and his words. "I love you, too."

********************************************

"There is so little fresh," the housekeeper said, serving reheated food and stored preserves from the previous night. "I will go to town and get something."

"This is fine, thank you," Georgie said, grabbing the first plate she saw and setting the whole thing in front of her. Charles managed a few bites of biscotti, but his stomach was still not settled. "We won't be staying long. Charles, how long do you want to stay?"

"I need a day to pack," he said, dumbfounded that he was being asked. He looked to his housekeeper, but was unable to make eye contact with Signora Sestino. "Maybe two, at most."

"I will bring someone back to help when I get you food," the housekeeper said, and refilled the soup bowl in front of Georgie before leaving them to their own devices.

"If you need a day or two, we can wait," Georgie said. "Alison really likes your pool."

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint her." He smiled sadly and finished his biscotti.

********************************************

Despite both their arguments, neither Georgiana nor Charles could get Geoffrey to agree to swim trunks. He went in fully clothed (in his kimono) with his daughter, while Charles and Georgie watched from the side of the pool.

"Papa, I can swim. Let me swim!"

He had trouble releasing his hold on her. "You're hard to let go of." She responded by splashing him in the face.

Georgie laughed between bites of the food on a plate in her lap. Charles just gave his goddaughter a smile and avoided Geoffrey's eye. Georgie was adamant about them "both acting like adults" but that didn't mean they were on speaking terms beyond absolute necessities.

"I want to go to the edge of the pool!"

"I'll walk you there."

"No! I want to swim. Papa, please."

"Let me get a little closer first – "

"Papa!"

"All right, all right." He did release her – but caught her again when her head seemed to dunk under. It took three tries, but she did make it from halfway across to the edge of the pool, and back. "Done?"

"Again!"

Geoffrey sighed, but it got a laugh out of his wife, and he needed to hear laughter today.

As promised, he spent the afternoon with Alison, and part of the time with Georgie. Charles had to pack, and insisted on doing it alone, at least his personal effects. He joined them for a late dinner, after the housekeeper returned with a man to help package up some of the things being sent back. Charles was hardly looting the house before he put it up for sale, but he had some artwork he was particularly fond of.

"You don't mind?" Georgie said.

He shook his head. "Absolutely not."

Alison was perched on three books stacked on the chair between her mother and father. Geoffrey was mainly consumed in showing her how to use the utensils. He was too late for the soup – as soon as it was set in front of her, she tried to lift it to her mouth, but it was much too large and crashed on the hard table, breaking in half and getting soup everywhere. "_Gomen nasai_," she said to her uncle.

"English," her mother said, covering her mouth to hide her laughter as Geoffrey wiped himself off.

"Sorry – I very sorry, Uncle Charles."

"It was a heavy dish," Charles said. "It's quite all right."

After she decimated her chicken but still failed to attach it successfully to either the fork or the knife, her mother gave her permission to eat the bits of meat with her hands. There was very little sauce on them, so it hardly made a dent in the ever-growing mess in front of her, on her clothes, and on the floor beneath her chair.

"She eats very well with chopsticks," Geoffrey said in defense as the housekeeper wiped up under the chair. "Better than most European Orientalists, I'd wager."

Charles managed to eat a bit of chicken himself, some pasta, and a glass of wine. He was still pale and withdrawn, but considering he had been on the brink of death less than a day before, his recovery was impressive, and he always had a smile for Alison.

"Shamisen!" she shouted when she finished everything on her plate.

"What in the world is that?"

"Her instrument. She wants to play it for you," Georgie said. "Be warned – she is four."

"Shamisen!"

"Do you have it?"

"We can't go anywhere without it."

"Shamisen!"

"So, like your sword."

"Yes."

"Shamisen!"

To mainly Alison's delight, she sat on a pillow in the library and played her little guitar-like shamisen, and none of them had any idea if she was hitting the right notes, but Charles looked amused all the same.

"Geoffrey!" Georgie whispered. "Take your earpiece out right now."

His face went red as he quickly removed his earplug and stuffed it back in his pocket while Alison was concentrating on her instrument. When she finished – which was either the end of the song, or when she determined it was a good time to stop (which, they had no idea) – Charles clapped. "Very nice."

"Thank-a you, Uncle Charles."

"Geoffrey, you want to help her get ready for bed?" Georgie suggested, and he nodded, and took his daughter's hand so she would follow him, carrying her instrument, which was not very heavy.

"Where did she learn to play?"

"From a geisha."

"A what?"

"A courtesan. Others play it, but the expert in Imbe happened to be a... whore." She covered her mouth, and Charles looked into the fire.

"I won't tell."

"Good, because she won't be silent about it. Thank G-d she doesn't know the word in English."

"Geoffrey agreed to this?"

"She has him wrapped around her little finger, if you didn't notice," she said, and he nodded. "May I ask you something?"

"Why not?"

"Have you ever considered the other aspects of marriage?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Children. What do you think I mean? You're so good with Alison. You remind me of Papa when you're with her."

He did not answer her directly. He stared back into the fire, watching the small flames dance over the log. "I've always assumed myself a man of such low moral character, unsuited for a noble endeavor such as fatherhood."

"In just one respect, I am forced to agree with you. In every other respect, you are the sweetest man I know."

"You're lucky your husband isn't in the room."

"He has his 'Uncle Darcy' moments, I assure you."

They shared a laugh. Charles sipped his tea. "I always thought it was... beyond consideration. Because of what it came with."

"Not everyone is happy with _every_ aspect of their lives, Charles. In fact, most people would be quick to find a problem with anything. Even I have my moments..." She unwound her beads, and threaded them between her thumb and forefinger. "I thought, maybe I should just run off, and run wild in Japan, and that was the only way I could be happy. So I went to Japan, and discovered the opposite."

"If you're to tell me you've given up your martial activities, I'll simply not believe you."

"Well, that's not true, but certainly for now. For the next year or so. That's not forever. It's just a year, and it's worth the effort." Her beads made a sound when they clacked together. "I was drinking this potion that closed my womb. When we reached the harbor to leave Japan, I threw it in the ocean – which, in hindsight, was foolish of me, because some of the ingredients are quite expensive and I may need it again. It was the act of doing it that was more important to me. I didn't even tell Geoffrey until I was sure of my condition, and that I wasn't barren, and it was just the potion."

"I always thought..." he shrugged. "I thought you were just abstaining on the journey."

"For two years? That would be positively cruel. He has needs."

Charles blushed. "Don't say that to me."

"What? Because I'm your sister or he's your cousin? Which is worse?"

"No – it's all bad! Ugh, I can't imagine it – I don't want to imagine it!"

"What did you think, that I swallowed a seed and it grew in my stomach like Papa told us when Aunt Darcy was pregnant with Cassandra? That ridiculous story?"

"No! Why do you do this to me?"

She swiped him with her fan. "Because I'm your sister."

"I'm telling you, it makes it worse."

"That's why I'm doing it."

She prodded him more, and they talked of their childhood, and told jokes they hadn't told each other in years. They had not realized the hour when Geoffrey returned, looking at them with a queer eye. "Alison's changed, tucked in, sung to, and asleep."

"You sang to her?" Charles said.

"The housekeeper did. Georgie?"

She rose and kissed her husband. "Good night, Charles."

He rose to bow to her. "Good night."

She departed, leaving the two of them alone. Charles moved to leave, unsure of what else to do, but Geoffrey stopped him.

"Charles," he said, looking at his feet, "thank you for making my wife and daughter so happy."

"Thank you for saving my life."

He nodded. "You're welcome."

They bowed to each other, and Charles left first, giving Geoffrey a moment with his thoughts before retiring himself. It was the most they had said to each other in what amounted to only half a day, but felt like so much longer.

... Next Chapter - To Grandfather's House We Go


	7. To Grandfather's House We Go

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 7 – To Grandfather's House We Go

Geoffrey did not rise early. He stayed in bed with his wife, who was having a good morning in comparison to the last week, and she was as reluctant as he was to begin her day. There were no servants to draw their drapes or bother them, so they enjoyed the peace that came with the possibility that Alison was either still asleep or had decided not to bother them yet.

"She could be tearing the house apart."

"Who cares? As long as she doesn't drown."

Geoffrey chuckled. "We're only maybe two weeks away from Mr. Reynolds drawing the curtain on us and telling me about my appointments."

"Oh G-d, yes."

"And people leaving their cards..."

"Please don't remind me."

"You'll have to return the calls."

"How about I enter a very early confinement?"

He rolled over so he was facing her. "It might require a pillow."

"Or a rolled-up towel."

"You'll be the only woman in England who gives birth after twelve months. Most women are suspiciously shorter than the average, not longer."

Eventually they rose. There was no real need to be formal about their clothing, not with anyone else around. The mansion seemed even larger without servants. There was a man packaging up artwork, and the housekeeper was in the kitchen.

Alison was restless. She could only run around and get lost so many times. "Swim day! I want to swim!"

"I think you'll have to indulge her," Georgie said.

"You could. No one is around."

"I want to speak with Charles."

He just nodded. They took a quick breakfast of coffee and leftovers, and separated.

********************************************

After a bout of mild nausea, Georgiana was up to a walk around the building, long enough to find her brother in the library. She did not knock. When she opened the door, he was looking at a picture, but he slid it behind his back to greet her. "Georgie."

"Charles." She gave him a skeptical look. "What is it?"

"Do you really want to see?"

"Is it proper for a lady such as myself?"

He smiled nervously. "Under other conditions, I could not imagine you asking that question." He brought the picture out from behind his back. It was a portraiture in a little frame. "It is Guy."

Georgie took the portraiture; it appeared the same as any other of a young man, without devil horns or hellfire in the background.

"I was contemplating throwing it away. I suppose I should."

"His father must have been very upset. He might have even gone about destroying all of his things. Like the Darcy family did when they wanted to erase the memory of that mad uncle, even though he was still alive." She handed it back to him. "Maybe you should keep it." She could see his hands were shaking.

"I'm supposed to reform."

"I don't, in this case, fully understand the definition of the word, but you cannot destroy your memories, Charles. Even if you try; they just come back to haunt you." She added, "Even if he was only a very good friend, it would still be a great loss to you. I'm sorry for it."

"Thank you."

She embraced him, and this time, he was well enough not to cry.

********************************************

After Alison tired herself out in the pool, a very wet Geoffrey Darcy was carrying his similar-soaked daughter to her room when he was greeted by the housekeeper, whose presence he could not be more grateful for. She dried Alison and changed her clothes, and when Geoffrey returned, it was in time to put her down for her nap. Leaving Alison to sleep, he was offered some fresh rolls, and followed her to the kitchen for tea and fresh-baked bread.

"Signora Sestino, I must beg a question of you."

"Of course, Signor."

"Why did the servants flee?"

She paused with the dough she was kneading for a second, then continued. "They did not want to hang, Signor."

"They couldn't have all been – "

"Some were, some weren't. I do not know every one."

"What about the maids?" As shameful as it would be to hear that Charles had been so loose around his own household, it would be relieving to hear something of an interest in the female form. "Why did they leave?"

"I can only speculate, that they did not want their reputations ruined. They were young. If there were a trial, even for a single man, they would have to be interrogated. They might not be hired again." She began to pour the meat into the spread dough for rolling up. "He paid us weekly, Signor. It was no hardship for them to leave now, not with the risk."

"But you stayed."

"He is going to burn in hell, your cousin, if he does not repent. But he is a good man. I have had many foreign masters in this house, and he was the most honest, most sweet, most respectful of them all. And he has no one. I could not leave him." She crossed herself, and pulled the dough over to form a roll. "Besides, who would take care of you?"

"You have a good point," he said with a smile, and sipped his tea.

********************************************

With some nervousness and some pleasure Charles announced that their transport was arranged to take them to the port the next morning. With any luck they would catch a boat quickly and be home in a few weeks.

"If you need more time..."

"I don't. I don't want to decimate this house, or it won't be a profitable sale," he said. "Though I will miss it."

"It is a lovely house," Geoffrey admitted. It was quaint and had its charms, but it was understood that Charles had to give it up, for reasons unrelated to the house itself.

"Does our house have a pool?" Alison asked in Japanese.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because we do not. But we do have a lake."

"Can I go swimming?"

"Not right now," Georgie said, and helped her daughter hold the fork correctly in her hand.

********************************************

In the morning everything was packed, the items to be shipped were ready to ship, and there was only the heartfelt goodbye for Signora Sestino (and with her final payment, which was sizable).

"You saved my life," Charles said to her in Italian. "And my soul. Thank you, Signora."

"I will pray for you, Signor Bingley."

He bowed, and the Darcys said their goodbyes, and were stuffed into the departing carriage. Charles watched through the window as the villa disappeared over the mountains, and could not be seen again from the road.

They were fortunate in finding a ship on its way to England, and boarded without incident. For a family of three and a gentleman moving out of his villa, they had very few trunks and most of them were Charles'.

The ride was not particularly rocky, as it was a fairly large cargo and passenger ship, and Geoffrey and Georgie seemed to trade off being ill, only leaving Alison with Charles when they both were. With long hours to pass, Georgie told her brother of her training with Mugen – how frustrating and rewarding it had been, often at the same time. When she was ill and Geoffrey was better, he talked to Charles of old times, still cautiously avoiding their University days, and stumbling around many other topics, but eventually he found a comfort level and was able to talk to him as a cousin and friend again. Their relationship would never be the same, but it was not meant to be. They were both different men than they had been since their University days, and in some respects, it was time to start anew.

"England!" Alison shouted, pointing over the side.

"No, darling, that's France," Georgie said, turning her around to face the land far away on the other side, partially hidden in mist. "_That_ is England."

It wasn't enough to see the shoreline; they had to feel it in the air, see the Thames, and smell the foul stench that could only be London before they could believe it. The Darcys were home.

********************************************

Unfortunately for Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Darcy, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy were not at home – that is to say, the Darcy house in London was closed. The house manager dropped the book in his hands at the sight of them. "Mr. Darcy! Mrs. Darcy! Miss Darcy! I had no idea – Mr. Bingley, of course." He hurriedly bowed to them all. "The house isn't ready – the master is at Pemberley, and your trunks from Japan were sent home with the family after the wedding."

"That's quite all right. Is the Bingley house open?"

"It is, sir. Mr. Bingley is there, but you shouldn't have to – "

Geoffrey raised his hand. "I would very much like to see my uncle anyway. We will stay with him tonight, and return tomorrow. Is that enough time to open the house?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

"Very good."

"Welcome home, sir! Marm!"

As tempting as it was to stay in their own home, Charles was due at the Bingley house and he had more luggage. They did not know if Edmund was in Town, or if he had his own house, but they all wanted to see the person they were sure was there.

Geoffrey did not have a walking stick to bang on the door with, but Charles did. The door opened, but they were greeted not by the doorman, nor a relative. Technically.

"Monkey!" Georgie shouted, abandoning all pretenses of acting like an adult and running to greet the primate, who squealed and leapt up and went flying into her arms. "Did you miss me?"

"I suppose he did," her father said, emerging from the study. Geoffrey nudged his daughter, and Alison ran to her grandfather as she was told. "And who is this girl who's gotten so tall?"

"Grandpapa, you don't recognize me?" she said in Japanese.

"Of course." He couldn't pick her up, so he knelt down and hugged her, speaking in Japanese. "I just remember you a bit shorter."

"She does speak _some_ English," Geoffrey said, and bowed. "Uncle Bingley."

His Uncle Bingley barely had time to respond before he was assaulted by his daughter alongside his granddaughter, and Monkey, who climbed on his head in the confusion. "Not all at once! I'm ashamed to say it but you're stronger than me."

"Papa," Georgie said, pulling back to look at her father with tears in her eyes. He was older and greyer than she remembered, with very little color remaining to his hair, but he still had that youthful smile.

"Not to put you off, Georgie," he said, "but I see you are not the only surprise today."

He turned to his son, who bowed nervously. "Father."

Mr. Bingley would have none of that. He opened his arms, and welcomed his son's embrace. "Charles." Now it was he who was crying. "I'm so glad you've come home."

"So am I."

The servants were as shocked by the arrivals and could only too quickly bring them refreshments as they took up their seats around Mr. Bingley, who sat in the armchair with Alison on his lap. "This is a surprise. Brian said you were coming but I didn't know when." He refused the offer of a drink; he was too distracted. "Your mother and sister are in Derbyshire with the Darcys. Edmund and Lucy – his wife – have purchased a house a bit north of here, a very fashionable street. And the Maddoxes are in Chesterton – except for Frederick and Lady Heather, who have their own place in Town. My, we're just taking over London, aren't we?"

"How is Edmund?" Georgie asked.

"Very newly married, so I've not wanted to disturb his privacy. I'm only still here to work on the inventory from the ship with Brian. And he says he wants to retire! Open up a school or something."

"What would he teach?" Charles said. "Samurai fencing?"

"So he says. I can't imagine there wouldn't be a market for it – somewhere to send rowdy young boys in London that isn't already established to be a seedy place filled with drunks, like the boxing clubs?" He shook his head. "I made some sort of comment about you teaching, Georgie, if you had some kind of disguise, but he just shook his head."

"Well... not for the next six months, certainly," she said between mouthfuls of pastries. "And some time after that."

Bingley looked to his son-in-law, and Geoffrey nodded. "Oh, goodness," he said. "My cup runneth over. Capital news. That bugger must have been hiding it from me!"

"We wanted to tell you ourselves," Georgie said.

"The best way to hear it, I suppose. Your mother will be so happy. And your aunt. And Darcy."

"Speaking of," Geoffrey said, rising. "If you will excuse me, Uncle, I feel I must try to get an express out today to my parents."

"Of course! Have my study, and don't touch the blue label wine. That's for special occasions. Although I suppose this is one..."

"Geoffrey suffered so much," Georgie said, "without his beef and wine."

Alison whispered something in her grandfather's ear, and he looked at her, and then said to Georgie in English, "I'm to understand you had a cow for Christmas?"

********************************************

There was simply too much to do before dinner. Geoffrey and Georgie's clothes were brought over from the Darcy house, as Geoffrey was taller than both Bingleys, but he stopped his uncle short of calling an emergency haberdasher to sew him boots. None of Alison's old clothes would fit, and she had only the gowns they purchased in Capetown – which were now fairly ruined – but Bingley was more than happy to have his granddaughter running around in her kimono. As soon as the dinner arrangements were set and the invitations sent, the new arrivals collapsed in their respective beds for a well-deserved rest before the meal.

The first to arrive were Frederick and Lady Heather Maddox, with a nurse carrying their son. There was no time for formalities for old friends. "Georgiana!"

"Heather!" They embraced, and Georgie bowed to Frederick. "Frederick."

"Monkey. Mrs. Darcy."

"I heard that," Geoffrey said, "Frederick. Lady Heather."

"You're lucky I'm distracted," Georgie said as the nurse passed her their son. "We were on edge for months, wondering if you'd had the child. All our mail was held up. Oh, he's adorable!"

Before Stewart could reach him, Monkey leapt off Georgie's bonnet and into Geoffrey's arms, and then down on the ground to be greeted by Alison. "Remember what we said," Geoffrey said to her.

"_No pulling on his tail_," she said in Japanese, and petted Monkey, which he seemed to accept.

"Greet your cousins, Mr. and Lady Maddox."

"Mr. Maddox, Lady Maddox." She tried to curtsey, but it was more to the side than down, then she proceeded to hide behind her father.

"Does the kid speak English?"

"A little," Georgie said, "but she understands it just fine. And she's her mother's daughter."

"I'd best get out of range, then."

"Frederick!" Heather said, and he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Charles! You've returned."

"Evidently this is more surprising than returning from the Orient," Charles Bingley III said. "Lady Heather. Frederick."

"How was Italy?"

"How was White's?"

Frederick scowled. "Don't rub it in," Heather said. "Just because no one will gamble with him anymore."

"What's this?" Geoffrey said.

"Yes, yes, we'd all like to hear the story of precisely how Frederick got himself expelled from the finest gentlemen's club in England," Mr. Bingley said, announcing his presence, which was followed by a chorus of greetings, bows, and curtseys. "In fact, I would be inclined to hear this _before_ my business partner gets here."

It was not easy for them all to sit in the drawing room, with Monkey running away from Stewart, Stewart crawling away from the overly curious but unfamiliar Alison, and both mothers trying to control them as the others drank their brandy and listened without any comprehension to what Frederick was saying. "It's simple. If you assign a numerical value to each of the 52 cards based on its value in the game, whether it's been played, and whether it's currently in your hand, and you divide it by the number of players, you can predict the probability of an ace occurring in the drawing by – "

"This is cheating at cards?"

"It's not cheating! It's mathematics," Frederick said. "I didn't win every time. I just could reasonably predict my chances of winning and fold when I was fairly sure they were low and bet when I was fairly sure they were high."

"What about the second turn?" Charles asked.

"Then it becomes more complicated, because you have to keep a running total based on all of the cards you've seen played as well as the cards remaining in the deck, and if you can remember how many have been drawn, by the fourth round – if you get to it – you can reasonably assume the probability – "

"No more probabilities!" Geoffrey said after the second time Frederick tried to explain it. "I don't think I could possibly keep that all in my head while playing cards."

"I suppose that's why so few people use it to win at cards," Mr. Bingley said, sipping his drink with amusement. "Where did you learn this trick?"

"I didn't learn it. I figured it out and tested it on a series of low stakes games in other gambling houses."

"And on me," Heather said. "The hours he did this."

"It did distract you."

Heather held her son. "A little."

"So you had your system," Geoffrey said, "and you walked into White's – "

"It wasn't all in one day. It only calculates probabilities, and sometimes it's just more probable that you're going to lose and you fold. It took me about three months before someone noticed I was up about thirty thousand pounds. The Viscount Brougham – that bastard – "

"Language!" Heather and Georgie said in unison.

" – pointed out something was suspicious right after I took him for five hundred pounds on an extraordinary run of luck. It's not that the game isn't mainly luck, it's that you can calculate the odds of your good fortune prior to deciding how heavily to bet. Anyway, he called me a cheat and they pulled up my records. They couldn't prove anything, but they made it quite clear that I should take my person and my apparent trade elsewhere."

"And of course nobody will let him in their club," Mr. Bingley said. "Not with his reputation."

"I'm not a cheat. They let people with cards up their sleeves in but not me."

"My poor husband," Heather said. "Banned from impolite society."

"And all he has to show for it is thirty thousand pounds," Georgie said.

"You see them ganging up on me?" Frederick said to Charles. "This is why we have gentlemen's clubs in the first place."

Charles shrugged but was wise enough to not verbally agree.

... Next Chapter - Impending Fatherhood


	8. Impending Fatherhood

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 8 – Impending Fatherhood

The arrival of Brian and Nadezhda Maddox meant the evening could properly begin. It was the first real reunion for Alison, who ran to greet them. "Brian-san! Nadi-sama!"

"Oi, what's this? I thought we left you on the ship!" Brian said. "How did you escape?"

"Brian-san!"

"Don't tease her," Nadezhda said, and stroked Alison's hair. "Did you see Italy?"

"She did," Charles Bingley III said, entering from the drawing room. "Mr. Maddox. Your Highness."

"Charles." Brian smiled. "It's so good to see you. Did they have to result to force? Because I authorized them to do so?"

"They did not."

It was time to send the children upstairs. Stewart was ready for sleep, but Alison went only with her mother dragging her up the stairs. At last they could all be seated, with a very proud father at the head of the table, and the seat across from him left open for the absent mistress of the house, currently with her sister and daughter at Pemberley.

"How is Mother?" Charles asked as they were seated. "Aside from anxious to have me home. That much, I am aware."

"She's well. Very pleased with Edmund's marriage. I was scheduled to return to Derbyshire tomorrow, but we shall see what her reply is to the letter."

"I think we'll all be coming up to Derbyshire shortly, Uncle," Geoffrey said.

"And we were hoping to have you all under one roof for your grandfather's birthday, if Edmund and his wife are willing. By then, they should be. And I suppose now that you are all home, the date can be set for Emily's wedding."

"My brother did want to wait until his son returned," Brian said. "I had a bit of a time explaining to him that it was an unlikely possibility."

"Who is her intended?" Georgie asked.

"A Fellow from Cambridge – or former Fellow, I should say, as he graduated already – named Henry Jordan. He's the third son of a count, and intended to take Holy Orders in search of a living. I'm not precisely sure if he still intends to take them; I believe he does not. Very smart fellow, a bit serious – but I'm told I think everyone is too serious. But very scholarly – my brother approves of the match."

"And Aunt Maddox?"

Brian looked at Bingley, who just chuckled. "Caroline hoped she would marry someone titled, but he seems to have won her over. He has a doctorate in law, and with Emily's inheritance, they could do quite well no matter what position he eventually finds himself in. I confess, he earned my esteem when he borrowed a number of my books on Indian mythology. Any English parishioner who reads the Ramayana can't be all that of a narrow-minded bore."

"Where is all of this anti-clerical sentiment coming from?" Geoffrey asked.

"There's a story behind it, but Bingley won't admit it unless you pry it from him."

"That's not true." Bingley put down his spoon, looked flustered for a moment, and then said. "Fine. There have been some... problems with the vicar of Lambton as of late. Or with his sermons. The service is the same."

"What kind of problems?"

"I'm ashamed to speak ill of a clergyman, but I will say that there was a noticeable change in his... tone... after his wife departed."

"That is very sad."

"You misinterpret your father's words," Brian said. "His wife left him. Was tired of the old coot, to repeat her oft-repeated declamation before leaving for Bath. Since then his sermons have been harsher in tone, especially towards the behavior of women these days."

"Is there anything to be done?" Geoffrey said. "Can they be reconciled?"

Bingley resumed eating. "Darcy tried expressing his concerns. Geoffrey, your mother even wrote the vicar's wife, but has never spoken a word of the reply she received. Our hope now is to employ a new curate, for the sake of parishioners, and to succeed the vicar."

"He yelled at me for nodding off in the one service I attended," Brian said.

"You shouldn't have been nodding off in church anyway," Nadezhda replied.

"That doesn't mean he should have denounced me after the services. On the Sabbath day! He picked me out because I was oddly dressed; there were plenty of people sleeping."

"How could there be? I can't sleep through all of that shouting about hellfire," Bingley said. "Though I have tried."

"Papa!"

"Oh, of course, I wasn't supposed to admit that." Bingley smiled and sipped his wine.

********************************************

"She does own normal clothing," Georgie said as Alison played on the floor before them in her kimono. The ladies split off, mainly so Georgie could finally talk to her friend, whom she hadn't seen in two years. "She just only has a few and she's worn them out with all the traveling we've been doing."

Stewart was awake again, and finally fed, so he was passed to Georgie, and proceeded to fall asleep in her lap. "He's adorable."

"Thank you. He usually doesn't stay in other people's arms, but I guess he's too tired to know the difference. We took him for new clothing today. He's outgrown everything. My parents have given us all of this fine clothing, but it's terribly musty and out of fashion. Frederick won't even look at it."

"Did you wear it?"

"My _grandparents_ probably wore it."

"Perhaps I'll be gifted a ton of outdated dresses for Alison when I return to Pemberley. I know mine are ruined, but I have three sisters-in-law. Save me the trouble of shopping."

Heather pretended to be horrified. "You wouldn't shop for your own daughter?"

"You haven't seen all the things we bought her in Japan. We looted that little town." Georgie stroked Stewart's brown hair, wild like his father's. "He has his father's features. But your nose, thank goodness."

"I like Frederick's nose. It's distinctive."

"You married him." She carefully handed Stewart back to his mother when he started to whine. "I heard about his father's death."

"It was national news," she said. "We went to the procession, but that was all."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Aside from my court presentation, no. He was not seeing visitors for months before he died. I did get a lovely wedding gift – this diamond necklace that I don't know if I will ever be at a ball fancy enough to wear. And matching earrings." She rocked Stewart back to sleep. "He won't admit it, but I know Frederick loved his natural father. It's just one of the topics which he will not expound on at length, no matter how drunk he is."

"Speaking of fathers, how is Uncle Maddox?"

"He's doing well. A bit amused at Aunt Maddox, who is forever trying to impress my parents. I don't know why, but he just laughs at it, because they'll never be impressed with her."

"Her husband is a knight!"

She shrugged. "My parents can be very discriminating. I'm sure you've noticed this."

They laughed. "Just a little."

********************************************

"Here's to family – home at last," Bingley said, and there was a chorus of cheers before they downed their glasses of port. "Mr. Wickham will straggle in eventually, I suppose."

"When is he finishing his degree?" Geoffrey asked.

"Hopefully this summer, but it depends on how confident he feels about the license exam. And my nephew is known for underestimating his abilities," Bingley said. George was in France, completing his graduate studies in medicine. "He came home for Christmas, to be with his family in London, but that was the last I saw of him. Ask Isabel – he writes her regularly."

"Forgive me – why were the Franklins not here tonight? Are they out of town?"

"No, quite the opposite. Mrs. Franklin has just entered her first confinement." Bingley raised his glass to that. "You'll have to call on them yourselves. Isabel could probably use more visitors."

"We shall – as soon as possible."

Frederick and Lady Heather could not stay late, not with such a young child, so they left shortly after Alison was sent to bed. Georgie kissed her father, brother, and husband before retiring. The rest remained in the study. Mr. Geoffrey Darcy kept by the fire, insisting that he would be fine.

"No! None for you," Bingley said as Monkey put a tiny hand on his glass of port. He pulled the monkey back into his lap. "Not after last time."

Monkey squealed at him.

"You regretted it last time. You were all moaning and groaning after you got into the punch."

"But he doesn't remember, because he's a monkey," Charles said.

"Of course not, but I still feel somewhat obligated to castigate him," his father said, and monkey howled until he scratched him on his furry head. "I'm a fool for animals, small children – older children. Grandchildren. Adults I like very much. And aging monkeys."

Geoffrey entertained them with some Japanese tales, though Charles had already heard the uncensored version of some of them and just nodded with a wicked grin on his face. Eventually he pleaded exhaustion, not out of boredom but out of truth, and excused himself for the night, leaving Geoffrey with his uncle and father-in-law.

"I don't know what you did," Bingley said, "but thank you for bringing him home."

"I didn't do anything. We just showed up."

Uncle Bingley looked at his face for an uncomfortably long time, and said, "Well, thank you." Meaning, he would not pry any further into the details, and for that Geoffrey was silently grateful. He didn't want to _ever_ be in the position of explaining the events between their arrival and departure from Italy. "I won't push the matter on Charles, but I know Eliza has been holding herself back from forming any attachment that might lead to matrimony and Charles is the reason. She has been so worried for him. They were always so close, before he went to University."

He just nodded.

"Not that I'm eager to give away my last daughter, but I don't want her to be lonely. And it is the natural order of things."

"Edmund did marry very young," Geoffrey added uncomfortably, "for the average bachelor."

"He's always done everything early, but yes, it was a bit of a shock that I had to grant my consent. Still, if she makes him happy, then so be it."

"I've not been introduced, so I cannot comment. I will have to take everyone's resounding word on the subject for the moment."

"Very wise." Bingley sipped his port. "And how is my other lovely daughter?"

"She's well, just very tired, and occasionally ill. But nothing unexpected."

"And how is Mugen?"

He knew the question was related. "I am to understand from the letter he sent us in Bombay that he's doing well on a small island off the west coast of Japan. I can't read Japanese as well as Georgie can, but that's what the letter says."

"So he's settled down?"

"It seems so. I'm as surprised as you are." He sighed. "I wasn't easy on him, I promise you, but he didn't fail her. I don't know why she needed to hear that she was a good person and mother from him, but she did, though those were not the words he used." Actually he did know why, but he couldn't properly express it.

"Georgiana mentioned something about visiting a temple in China with him."

"It was the monastery where he learned to fight. He told us of it when he first arrived in Imbe, but I didn't imagine he would ever want to go back. She said it's all closed up now, with almost nothing left, but still a beautiful building. She sketched it, actually, if very quickly."

"She also mentioned something about a reincarnation business that Mugen didn't believe in, but was more than willing to tell her."

"Yes. That she's the reincarnation of his old master, and he's the reincarnation of the master before him. You're more familiar with Buddhist belief than I am, Uncle Bingley."

"Does she believe it?"

"She's like Mugen. She won't admit to believing in anything."

His uncle chuckled. "I understand." He paused before speaking again. "While I'm thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild, I am also to understand that she is happy about it."

"Yes. Though it is a bit hard to tell sometimes."

"Of course. Even Jane was grumpy during her convalescences. But if you say Georgie is happy with her condition, that is all I need to hear."

"She is."

He smiled. "That is very good to hear. I can only hope _each_ child will not require a trip to the ends of the earth."

"On that, I can soundly agree with you, Uncle."

********************************************

The Darcys decided to stay another day in the Bingley house, instead of the cold and empty Darcy house. In the afternoon, they left Alison with her uncle and grandfather and went to call on the Franklins.

Mr. Saul Franklin had set himself up in a very fashionable and respectable part of Town. His wife, the former Isabella Wickham, kept a tidy household, though it was full of knickknacks from Saul's Continental travels and their extended honeymoon. He was more than happy to greet them. "We've only just heard of your arrival."

"We've only just arrived," Georgie said. "Mr. Franklin."

"Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Darcy. I see you've come home in one piece. Or two pieces, that is. And I assume your daughter is well?"

"She's being reunited with her grandfather," Geoffrey said, "whom she probably has limited memory of."

Isabel was out shortly. So early in her confinement and with the new corsets and shawls, her condition was barely noticeable, though her face was a bit wider than they remembered. "Cousin Geoffrey! Georgie! Oh, I'm so glad you've come. Is it true Charles is also home?"

"It is, but we didn't want to swarm you."

"Nothing of the sort! Please, be seated."

After initial greetings and refreshments, the men and women separated, and Georgie had her time alone with the former Miss Wickham. "I confess I'm nervous, though I suppose that's not much to confess," Isabel said.

"Then I confess that I'm nervous about joining you in confinement in two months, and I've been through this twice."

"Really? Oh, Georgiana, that's wonderful! But it must have been awful for you, on the ship like that."

"Geoffrey gets seasick, so this time at least we were ill together. How is George?"

"I've just received a letter. He usually writes me monthly, but since the announcement, he exchanges letters with me as quickly as they can be delivered. He mainly asks questions, and I have to drag details out of him – but he's always been like that. He's very nervous about completing his studies, even though Dr. Maddox has always watched his career and says that George could pass the examination for a license in his sleep. Of course, it doesn't hurt that Dr. Maddox sits on the Board of Royal Physicians."

Georgie grinned. "Surely not."

"We visited him in Paris our first Christmas, just to make sure he was not living in squalor, and you should have seen Paris! It's so ancient. They haven't rebuilt from the war at all. But anyway, he's come home for Christmas since, and we had the meal and celebration here – all eleven of us. Mama and Mr. Bradley have six children now."

"Six!"

"Yes, and Saul has been _so good_ about hosting them for the holidays. He used to have a very large family, when he was young, but you might have heard that he lost all his siblings to scarlet fever, so he's a bit sentimental and doesn't mind children around – which is a bit of a relief to me." She blushed. "George promised to come home when my time draws near. He sounds so worked up in his letters; I think the break might be good for him."

"If he loves his studies I don't know why he's racing through them. It's not easy to become a physician under thirty."

"I know, but on the other hand, I would very much like to see him back in England – and married, perhaps."

"Sorry," Georgie said, "but my only friend outside the family was already stolen away from me by Frederick."

"He needs someone gentle, and understanding."

Having met George's mistress/courtesan in Cambridge, Georgie had a feeling he needed someone who wasn't entirely _gentle_, but she kept that to herself. "He needs someone who is caring, but can match him in intelligence. Oh, this is London – that will be very hard to find." She shook her head. "What has the world come to? Me sitting here, matchmaking for George Wickham."

"Sometimes there are better ways to look out for someone than with the application of violence."

"Why does everyone assume that is my first response to conflict?" Georgie grumbled, and sipped her tea. "Oh, of course. Because it is."

********************************************

"So how is Saul?" Georgie asked long after they returned to the Bingley house, checked on Alison, and retired to their room for a rest before dinner. More accurately, Georgie wanted a rest, and Geoffrey went with her.

"I'll trade you Saul for Isabel."

"Hmm. I'm afraid I can't do that. We women and our secrets."

He grinned and climbed into bed with her. "Saul is fine. A bit nervous about his impending fatherhood, but that's to be expected. I reassured him that all he had to do while she was screaming in pain was drink himself into a stupor."

"You never did that."

"Yes, well, I'm a Darcy, not a Bingley."

"_Geoffrey_."

"My mother says that Uncle Bingley had to be revived with a jug of coffee before he could make it up the stairs to meet you, and Dr. Maddox says when Charles and Eliza were born, your father was passed out on his desk."

"Liar!"

"You know it's true. You can picture it."

She kissed him. "You know me too well. And I know my father too well. A bad combination."

He returned the kiss. "So it seems."

********************************************

Dinner was a smaller affair, and was not for some time. Geoffrey had an appointment with a boot-maker, who came to take his new measurements and promised him the latest fashions as soon as possible. Georgie continued Alison's English lessons until it was time for the girl's nap. When she came back downstairs, the study door was closed, meaning her father was working at his ledgers. She entered the library, browsing the shelves. There was much more in the Bingley library besides traditional English classics. She pulled out a slim book called _Beliefs of the East_ and was thumbing through it when she heard the door open. "Charles."

He bowed. "Georgiana." He closed the door behind him.

She snapped the book shut. "What is it?"

He looked around as if there were servants in the room spying on them – there were none – and approached her, speaking in a low voice. "I don't think I can do this."

"Do what? Eat dinner?"

Charles managed a weak smile. "You know what I mean."

"You've already faced Father, and he's hardly had you on the rack. He's just happy you've come home, in case you didn't hear him the ten times he's said it in the last day."

"I know. It's Eliza."

"Eliza's easy, should you choose to look at it that way. You don't have to hide anything from her."

He bit his lip. "Don't make me do this."

"Charles, you promised."

"I don't want to upset her."

"She's not glass. She will not shatter and break. She's your sister." She added, "And she loves you. Unconditionally. You know she does."

"What if she does not accept it?"

"She may not. And she may not understand. But she will continue to love you and support you. _That_ I am sure of."

He grinned. "And they say you're the cruel one."

She patted him on the hand. "You'll be all right." She added, in a much different tone, "And now, _who_ _says_ I'm the cruel one?"

... Next Chapter - Brotherly Love


	9. Brotherly Love

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 9 – Brotherly Love

The next day, when they were back in their own townhouse, the Darcys left a card for Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Bingley, not wanting to disturb them beyond that. To their surprise, it was returned by an almost immediate call.

"We weren't sure how long you would be in Town," Edmund said. "I imagine you're eager to be back at Pemberley, Mr. Geoffrey Darcy. Georgiana. May I present my wife, Mrs. Lucy Bingley?"

"Our pleasure." There were bows and curtseys all around. Lucy Bingley (nee Hartford) was a woman of modest height, appropriate proportions, and black hair, but had a very sweet demeanor, and was prone to giggle at whatever Edmund said. Geoffrey reminded himself that this woman was a full eight years younger than his wife, and that he had managed to almost fully avoid the marriage market of attractive women, so he had little with which to compare.

The couples separated, and after saying hello to Alison, Edmund was handed a glass of brandy in the study as Geoffrey toasted to his newfound happiness. Edmund really did look like his father when he had a smile on, which was so rare in the past. "To your good fortune. If I had known you were to be married – "

"Of course. Oversea travel is not entirely predictable. Besides, my experience has been that marriage ceremonies are remarkably similar to each other."

"Yes, of course," Geoffrey said. "And your father is very pleased that we came home with Charles."

Edmund's demeanor took the expected negative turn, though he tried to hide it. "So you did."

"I know you are not on the best of terms with him – "

"If he is to live in England again, I will make all the presentation of being in good relations with my brother," he said coldly, "otherwise, no, to put it simply, we will avoid each other. I have my reasons."

"I know your reasons," Geoffrey said.

"It was that apparent? What kind of fool did he make of himself?"

Geoffrey did not consider attempted suicide on par with embarrassing drunken antics, so he simply said, "He did no such thing. Nonetheless, he has no plans at this time to tell anyone other than Eliza."

"Fine. Then we will all keep up this pretension until he exposes himself."

"Why must you assume the worst of him?"

Edmund responded with a look.

"He's your brother."

"We do have that unfortunate connection."

"What is this about? Kirkland? Being the younger son? _What?_ Because you're being positively cruel. As if life has not been unkind enough to him and will continue to be, possibly for the rest of his life."

"He can reform."

"He has tried, and he promised to try again, but if it is not an illness, or lack of moral character, then... " He stumbled. "... Then at least he knows his own nature. I can say that of few men our age."

"Then you don't condone it?"

"Of course I don't condone it! But that is not to say that I am perfect in every respect... in other respects, of course."

Edmund smiled. "Ah yes. 'Judge not lest ye be judged.'"

"Yes. Thank you for being a medium for Uncle Grégoire for a moment there, instead of your snide self. Honestly, Edmund, for a married man who's done so well for himself, I expected better of you."

Geoffrey turned away, to refill his own glass from the decanter on the desk. Edmund was silent as he did this, and remained so until he turned around.

"I won't accept him into my house," Edmund said, though his voice was softer, "but I won't expose him, either. If it comes to it, I'll even cover for him. Beyond that, ask no more of me."

Geoffrey nodded, very aware that it was all he could expect. Hopefully marriage would soften Edmund. "Good luck with your new household."

"Thank you."

With that, Edmund collected his wife and they took their leave. "They seem like a happy couple," Geoffrey observed, which was all he was willing to say in front of the servants. He retreated with his wife to the study, hoping she would talk first, as he was not happy with his discussion and didn't want to say anything rash. "So?"

Georgie rolled her eyes. "I thought he'd have a little more sense."

"You don't approve?"

"She's a perfectly acceptable societal lady, she managed to catch his discerning eye, and she's not a fortune hunter, or she wouldn't be after a younger son. And there is some genuine affection. But that's between them – not between her and me."

"You are not required to like all of your relatives, as long as they meet acceptable standards."

"_I_ don't meet acceptable standards."

He grinned. "If you say so. I've never given it any thought."

More distressing to her than the silliness of his wife was Edmund's words on Charles, however expected they were. "Papa will notice something," she said.

"Uncle Bingley knows more than he lets on."

"Do you think he suspects the truth?"

"No, but he is and shall remain the long-suffering parent until Charles finds some measure of happiness and Edmund makes some peace with him. We just can't expect it to happen tomorrow." He pulled her close. "Edmund will come around – one way or another. I promise."

********************************************

They did not tarry in London. Leaving only the Maddoxes behind for business purposes, the Darcys and Bingleys boarded their carriages and began the trek to Derbyshire. With the improved roads, the driver said they would make it in two days, if the weather remained fine.

"You know that railroad? The one they use to move coal?" Charles said during one of the brief stops, as they stretched their legs. "They're going to build one that goes from London to the north of England."

"Is that possible?"

"It's true – that they intend to build it, at least," Bingley said. "I read it just last week. It'll take years – and if it works, I'll have to ride it, but not without putting my affairs in order first!"

Alison was for the most part entertained by the passing scenery. She could not remember ever having seen sheep, or so many cows in one place, or so many carriages on the open roads.

After many wrong guesses on her part, Geoffrey finally pressed his finger against the glass and said to his daughter, "_That_ is Pemberley."

"And that's where we live?"

"That's our home. Most of the time, anyway. I was born there, and you were born there, and your grandfather was born there."

"And Mama?"

"No, Mama was born in another house."

"Why?"

He looked at Georgie and laughed. "I don't know a way to explain it to you. Not everyone has the honor of being born at Pemberley."

Georgie kicked him in the shin, but he didn't mind. Not with his new, heavy boots.

There was a crowd waiting for them – first of servants, to relieve them of their things, before they could even get to their relatives. Though Alison had been carefully instructed on whom to address, she ran right past her grandparents and all her aunts and uncle to the man in the back, leaning on his cane. "Grangran!"

"Well, well," Mr. Bennet said, resting his hand on her head as she hugged his chest. He had a bit of a hunch, so he was not particularly tall, but he was too stiff to bend further to reach her. "Aren't I the lucky one?"

"You must be very distinctive, Papa," Elizabeth Darcy said, before abandoning all pretense and embracing her son as he went to catch his daughter. "My baby."

"Mother!" Geoffrey said, but could not object too strenuously, at least not while in her arms.

"Georgiana," Darcy managed to get in.

"Uncle Darcy," she said, before turning her attention to someone else. "Mama."

"Eliza," Charles Bingley (III) bowed.

"Charles," his twin sister returned, with no small amount of emotion.

Mr. Bingley finally brought up the rear, an amused look on his face. "Miss Darcy. Miss Sarah. Miss Cassandra. It seems I am unloved."

"You're not, Uncle Bingley!" Anne Darcy protested.

"It's quite all right, I assure you – but if I ever disappear for two years, I expect the same greeting."

It took quite a while for all the right people to be addressed, the hands to be shaken until they hurt, and Alison to be picked up by as many relatives who could bear it. Darcy called for Mrs. Annesley to set up an impromptu luncheon, which caused a flurry among the already-overexcited servants. The beloved son and heir to Pemberley was home at last.

Alison Darcy's demands to be seated at the table, albeit on a number of books and a cushion, were given in to in the excitement of the moment. She took the coveted seat between her parents. "Shamisen!"

"Not now."

"Shamisen!"

Darcy looked at Bingley. "Do I want to know what this is about?"

"It's an instrument."

"Does she play it well?"

"She's our granddaughter so she does everything well," he said, with a wink in his eye.

Jane nudged her husband, but he just smiled at her innocently. "We would love to hear it – but not during the meal." She smiled at her granddaughter, who giggled and waved with a hand full of biscuit.

"You heard your grandmother," Georgie said between mouthfuls.

Though there was no official announcement, word eventually spread between those who did know of Georgiana's happy condition, which had more than personal meaning within the walls of Pemberley. The possibility that they might have an heir before the year was out was juicy enough gossip to spread all the way through the servants' quarters before the meal was even finished.

Alison's parents, stuffed and tired themselves, decided their daughter was ready for a nap, and escaped their overeager relatives long enough to carry her up the stairs and into the nursery.

"I don't want to go to sleep."

"You'll lie down and see for yourself," Georgie said as Geoffrey put Alison in her bed. "Look at this." She opened one of the trunks from Japan, and removed a blanket. "Your blanket! You'll sleep better with it."

"My blanket!"

"There you go," she said as she spread it over Alison. "Sweet dreams."

As predicted, she was asleep within minutes, and Geoffrey finally let go of her tiny hand as they slipped out of the room. Georgie had the excuse of needing a serious rest of her own, and not just from traveling. She kissed him and retired to their chambers with the help of a maid; she did not yet have a new lady-maid and was perpetually between them.

For Geoffrey, it was not the case. "Reynolds."

"Mr. Darcy." In a rare moment of dissolved barriers, servant and master shook hands. "It is good to see you again."

"The same." They stepped into his dressing chambers and he was changed out of his traveling clothes. Thankfully, aside from his feet, his measurements were relatively the same, though he had a bit less fat and more muscle. The important thing was he still fit into most of his clothing, however outdated it now was. "I was a bit more eager to see my family than the haberdasher's, unfortunately."

"I have some things prepared, sir. There are also your trunks from Japan, but I couldn't identify any clothing in there as yours."

"They are mine," he said. "You would die of laughter if you saw me in what I wore when I was a Japanese constable."

"I would do no such thing, sir," Mr. Reynolds said, hiding a little smirk on his face as he buttoned a new vest.

"So what have I missed? Other than your reliable information."

"Your parents are both in good health, and took trips to Scotland and Ireland to see the master's sister and brother. Miss Darcy was courted briefly, but ended the connection. She says she will only marry for the deepest love."

"Anne's always said that."

"Miss Sarah spent some time in a girl's school in London to improve her languages and further her education, and has a few suitors, but nothing serious."

"And Cassandra?"

"The master has been very careful about her societal affairs, as she is too eager to attend them for his liking."

He shook his head. "I'm not surprised in the least. What does my mother think, do you suppose?"

"That your sisters should marry only for the deepest love."

"Fortunately, they are in a position where that is a financial possibility," Geoffrey said as Reynolds walked around him, taking measurements for adjustments on seams. "My grandfather seems well. And Aunt and Uncle Bingley?"

"They have been back and forth to London many times. They vacationed in Brighton last summer with Sir Daniel and Lady Maddox."

"And what else? Derbyshire news? Servants' gossip?"

"Servants do not gossip, sir."

"Of course not."

Mr. Reynolds put a black cloth around Geoffrey's cravat and tied it as he liked it, not very tight. "I suppose now that you've arrived it will all be betting on the gender and hair color of the child."

"Hair color?"

"It is of some... concern to the master that the heir to Pemberley is not red-headed. Or, that is perhaps something he said years ago in passing, and is just forever repeated."

"He doesn't get a choice," was Geoffrey's reply to that. He checked himself in the mirror and stepped off the box. "If there are any more trunks from Japan not already in our chambers, please have them brought up, except the ones marked as belonging to Alison."

"Yes, sir."

Unintentionally he found his mother first. He meant to seek out his father, but before he could reach the study, he found her in the great hall, looking at the paintings of the previous masters and mistresses of Pemberley. "Mother."

"Geoffrey. You startled me." She did not seem upset by it, though her eyes were red.

"Forgive me." He looked up at the portraits of himself and Georgiana, side by side. A very lovely bonnet obscured her hairstyle. It had taken months to get her to agree to a sitting. Beside them was empty space, before the hall ended. "What do you suppose we'll do, when there's no more room on the walls?"

"I don't know. The hall always seemed so vast; I assumed it would just be accommodating to future generations," she said. "I am so happy to have you home. All of you – but I must confess, Geoffrey, it is good to have _you_ home." She was crying, and he stepped closer, so she could grab hold of his vest. He was taller than her, but not by much, while he towered over Georgiana. "When you were a baby, your father carried you up and down and pointed to every person and named them."

"What did I think of my ancestors?"

She laughed, but it was lost in a sob. "You were much more interested in your hand, which you'd just discovered could be stuffed in your mouth." He embraced her, so his chest would muffle her whimpers. "As a mother I have braced myself for the pain of giving away my daughters, but not my son. Even though we had word from you, it was so delayed, and I could not help but fear for your life."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Is it too much to promise me you will never take such an extended trip to such a dangerous place again, at least in my lifetime?"

"You raised me not to make promises lightly, so no, I cannot," he said, "however unlikely it may be. Still, I do promise to try very hard not to put you through such agony again."

She pulled away from his arms, wiping her eyes. "Look at me. A weeping fool of a mother."

"I would rather have you weep than not notice I was gone."

"I promised myself I would never turn into Mama, and here I am." She sniffled, and adjusted her shawl so she was more composed.

He only said, "I don't see it as a bad thing."

********************************************

Mrs. Georgiana Darcy only found rest a very temporary state, in terms of remaining in bed. For a while she was lost in the old smells of the clean sheets that had been theirs since the wedding, and the light streaming in through the giant glass window. After drifting off for what could not have been more than half an hour, she woke, dizzy and nauseous, but only mildly so. She did not summon the maid, a new hire she did not know. She took one of the pillows and set it on the floor and sat on it, her back against the wall, and closed her eyes. It was so much easier to _rest_ sitting up, at least after eating so much food.

Physically she had changed, more dramatically than one was aware if only looking at her appearance, since her departure from Japan. The feeling was inexplicable, and something she was only aware of when deep in a meditative state, when she could detect a _heaviness_ that was not there before. She knew from the moment she felt it that she would give everything to nurture it and protect it. She was already sworn to such a duty and she welcomed it. For the rest of her life it would remain a constant part of her, whether it went on to live or it died and departed to another place. She was tied to something that was as real to her, at least when she was heavy in trance, as any person she could feel or touch.

It was hard to come back up from that place, where she felt complete control over her body, but when she did, her rougher symptoms were usually gone.

The room was empty. She summoned the maid, was dressed, and braced herself for the assault of relatives. When she found there was no onslaught, she slipped down the hall and into the nursery, where Alison was sitting on a pillow in front of her seated grandmother, playing the shamisen to marginally painful effect.

"Alison!"

"Mama!" Fortunately Alison dropped the instrument and ran to her mother. "I play good. Grandmama like."

"You play well," she corrected, curtsying to her mother. "Mama."

Jane Bingley smiled from the armchair. "She played very well, though I suppose it is an acquired taste."

"And she's four."

"You were very accomplished at four. You wrote and sung and knew exactly how to escape Kirkland and run all the way here before we found you. Though, I will say, you did not speak Japanese."

"_Does she like my playing?_" Alison asked in Japanese.

"_Of course she does_." Georgie picked up Alison, kissed her, and set her down by her play set of dolls, mostly English or Italian, but some Japanese. Georgie sat down next to her mother, accepting tea from the maid. "I told her you liked her playing."

"Of course I do. She's my granddaughter," her mother said. "What's the instrument called again?"

"A shamisen. I hope it doesn't bother you."

"Georgie, I've lived with your father for almost thirty years. I cannot name all of the things, bizarre or a nuisance, that I have had in my life. And we even have a monkey, so I suppose that says something." She put her hand on Georgie's. "I'm so glad you've come home."

Georgie smiled. "I am, too."

... Next Chapter - Sisterly Affection


	10. Sisterly Affection

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 10 – Sisterly Affection

Geoffrey Darcy rose early the next morning, despite the long celebratory dinner the night before. Nursing a mild hangover, he lied still for a while before finally getting up, kissing his wife (who grudgingly acknowledged his presence and went right back to sleep), and ringing for Mr. Reynolds.

Within half an hour he was dressed for the brisk spring morning, drank two cups of coffee, and exited Pemberley out one of the back doors. A mist was rolling over the hills of Pemberley, but it was still clear enough to shoot and early enough to hear the sounds of birds heading north. Despite the noise, he, nor his father, carried a rifle. In a brief discussion the night before, Geoffrey expressed a temporary disinterest in hunting, at least when it came to using guns. He did not add that it was because he'd shot a dozen samurai at point-blank range the previous summer.

Instead they carried their fishing poles, though his father confessed to having neglected the activity for some time. "I used to fish with your uncle, but last year we had some awful weather when he was here."

"Uncle Grégoire?"

"Yes. Though, I did fish with Wickham when we were young. Very young."

They proceeded down to the lake, with only a stray servant attending them by following at a distance. Otherwise, the master and son were alone.

"Is the lake stocked?"

"I've forgotten. Or more precisely, I believe I forgot to stock it. This may be an exercise in futility."

"That would describe most of my fishing expeditions."

His father gave him a little smirk, which amounted to a lot in Geoffrey's book, or anyone who knew Fitzwilliam Darcy. They set their lines out in the somewhat murky waters, unaffected by the insects that would swarm the surface in the summer months. Geoffrey sat in silence, partially because he still had a mild headache, and partially because his father could be a man of few or many words depending on his mood, and he was not quite sure which it was.

"Georgiana seems quite pleased with your trip," his father said. Of course, that was putting it mildly. "And Alison's English is... coming along, I'm told."

"A month ago, she barely spoke four words that weren't names. We'll make her a scrapbook, so she doesn't forget everything when she's older." He sighed. "She loved it there."

"It was all she knew."

"It had its charms."

"Bingley told me about your Christmas gift."

"I won't say much for their food, but that's a matter of taste. And wanting to eat something besides rice and fish." He picked up a pebble and tossed it, just to stir up the water. "Do you remember when my ears were first wounded, and Uncle Bingley was going to call for that Indian doctor from Bath, to put needles in my head?"

His father did not smile. "I do have some memories of that. Fortunately it did not come to that sort of quackery."

"There are many forms of medicine that are established quackery, and Dr. Maddox has warned us of them any number of times. Nonetheless, when I was briefly unsettled in Imbe, the physician did put needles in my head, and my recovery was exceptionally quick. Whether it was a coincidence or not, I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Did it hurt?"

"They're very small, like tiny sewing needles. I didn't really feel them. Georgie said I looked like a porcupine."

His father chuckled.

"She sketched it, of course."

"I'm sure she did. I will try to preserve your dignity by not bringing it up in front of her."

"Thank you, Father."

Darcy recast his line. Still nothing. "So do you have plans for the rest of her term?"

"We might spend a month in Lancashire, after we've seen everyone, before returning to Pemberley for the confinement. It depends on her ability to travel. We would like to have some time alone with Alison – before the baby comes, G-d willing."

"Most children are tended to by their Nurses."

"I know. I will have to free her of her dependence on us always being in the same room sooner or later. Just as you will have to allow my sisters to marry."

"Touché." His father smiled. "You will feel the same way when Alison is grown."

"That's a long way off."

"So you think. The years have a way of escaping your notice. Do you see those trees over there? The tall pines in the back?"

Geoffrey leaned over to see precisely where his father was pointing. "Yes."

"They put those up a few years ago, to block out the tower from the cotton mill."

"I didn't know there was a cotton mill so close to us."

"There is now. Makes a horrible smoke sometimes. But those trees were barely noticeable not that long ago, and it seems within a blink of an eye they are tall and full and the landscape has forever changed. Alison will not always be a child, so don't think things will not change. And quickly." He had a sad look about his face, something indescribable. "My father once told me, 'be glad you were born so late and fashions changed. Wigs are degrading and disgusting.' He wore one when he was a young man. I've some memories of it. He shaved his head to make it sit properly. I was very young and saw him without it for the first time. According to his account, I shrieked so loud it nearly broke the glass, and ran up to Nurse crying that my father had turned into a hairless monster. He was grateful when the styles changed, and he took it off and never put it back on again."

"Did you ever wear a wig? Aside from court."

"When I had lice, yes."

Geoffrey tried to smother his laughter, but wasn't particularly successful. His father didn't seem upset. "You don't remember it?"

"No."

"Good. It was not a high point in the personal history of my dignity."

Geoffrey's laughter was cut off by the hint of a bite on his line. He held the pole steady, then finally pulled it up, only to reveal a vine. Now it was his father's turn to laugh as he untangled it from the hook. "What would make a vine attracted to bait?"

"There are some fish here, but they are matching their wits with us today, to be sure."

********************************************

The Darcys returned with nothing but wet lines and empty hooks. "I caught something," Geoffrey said to his wife, "but it wasn't worth bringing back."

"Was it a fish?"

"It was a fish – just, very small. We have to stock the lake."

"That's cheating."

"So is buying fresh fish, but it's one or the other if you want to have the right number of courses."

Compared to the previous day, the house was quiet. The Bingleys were back at Kirkland, and Sir Daniel and Lady Maddox were still on their way. Georgie took the time to unpack some of their belongings from Japan, and Geoffrey spent some time meeting with his father and their steward before joining his sisters. They were intent on teaching Alison as much English as possible, and three women acting in concert could be intimidating for any reason, so his daughter looked overwhelmed when he approached. "Are they scaring you?" he said in Japanese.

"_They're not scaring me. Nothing can scare me. Like Mama!_"

"Translate, translate!" Cassandra pleaded. "Geoffrey, you're not being fair!"

Geoffrey picked up his daughter and sat down in the armchair with her on his lap. "She was commenting on her mother's fearless demeanor."

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "That cannot be what she said!"

"I not scared!" Alison said, raising her arms. "Ayahito protects me."

"Who's Ayahito?"

"The emperor of Japan," he said. "Your niece is very good at making friends in high places."

"You're joking!"

"You know he's not," Sarah said to Cassandra.

"What were you talking about before I came in?" he interrupted.

"We were offering to teach her a proper instrument – "

"No!" Alison shouted. "Shamisen!"

"Is a shamisen a proper instrument?" Anne asked him.

As tempted as he was to say otherwise, he nodded. "When played by certain people, it's very respectable. Even enjoyable – or so I'm told."

********************************************

The Bingleys joined them for dinner. Charles managed to corner Geoffrey in the empty study while the others were still greeting each other. "I can't do it."

"You promised Georgie. You promised both of us. Besides, hasn't Eliza asked?"

Charles Bingley III wrung his hands. "We've had the preliminary conversations of how happy she is that I'm home, but she hasn't directly asked me. She asked if I was well. The last time she saw me, I was thinner and at the end of my rope."

"That was an opening. You could have taken it."

"The time didn't seem right."

Geoffrey shook his head. "It never truly will, but you have to tell her, all the same. Telling her will be harder than withstanding her reaction, which I assure you, will be nothing like Edmund's. She's your sister."

"Edmund's my brother."

Geoffrey looked over his shoulder, and eased the door closed. "Edmund's a whiny git. There – I said it and I don't take it back. When he stops being so selfish, he'll realize how much he's hurt you. Eliza is nothing like him, but I shouldn't be the one to tell _you_ that."

"I know. I'm just nervous. Do I really have to tell her _everything?_"

"Would you rather she hear it from someone else?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Georgie would."

Charles had no response to that. He hung his head, and opened the door to rejoin the others.

********************************************

The next morning, Kirkland was quiet. Bingley was off shooting with Darcy, and Jane was busy with the many letters to send off to her sisters and extended family, with a more extended version of the news of the Darcys and Charles' return.

Charles Bingley the younger, meanwhile, was three glasses in to his morning ale. It wasn't enough to be truly intoxicating, but he was convinced it was bolstering his courage – or at the very least, delaying it for another few minutes.

"Charles?" his sister said as she entered the breakfast room. He nearly dropped his glass. Monkey followed her in, and Eliza shooed him off the table before he could get at any of the pastries. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he lied, hiding the ale behind a larger pot of coffee. She would know, but he said it anyway, and looked at the needlework in her hands. "What are you working on?"

"A little dress for Izzy's child. It's taking me forever."

"You have months to complete it."

"I know." She looked down at it. "It just might take that long."

Charles nodded. "Would you like to take a walk?"

There was a Chinese pagoda not far off from Kirkland proper, far enough that no one would bother them. The wood was all imported from Canton, or so the merchant told Bingley, who believed him. The design was definitely correct, though Mr. Maddox suspected it was Indian wood.

Charles regretted not bringing the ale, or a flask of something stronger. He wasn't ready. He would never be ready; he was always the coward. He wasn't the one off rescuing people.

"Charles?"

He didn't realize he'd been so silent. "Sorry." He smiled. "I'm a bit lost."

"How can you be? You've finally come home."

He just looked at her.

Eliza took his hand. "Why can't it be like when we were children?"

"We're not children anymore."

"So? Georgie and Geoffrey are still running off together."

He snickered. "I think there's more to their marriage than that."

"I mean they still trust each other. They tell each other everything – just like when they were children. It's one thing to be unwell, Charles. It's another for me to watch you deny it. Do you think that wouldn't hurt my feelings?"

"I'm more afraid the truth would."

"You're not going to die," Eliza said. "You would have told me already. And you said the doctor said there's nothing wrong with you."

"Nothing that will kill me, no. He was only a certain type of doctor. It is true that I am a healthy young gentleman, who drinks excessively but only during bouts of depression, which is more than I can say for most of the Ton. It's not sickness – though if I'd told him, he would have said it was. I'm just – _unnatural_." He couldn't bring himself to say the word. "I was in love – with a man. And I'll never be freed of it."

"You mean Guy?"

He blanked. He simply had no words.

"You were lost when he died. I remember when the letter came. You dropped it and cried. I could barely get a word out of you for days. He was your friend, the only one you've ever mentioned to me outside of the family."

"We were more than friends." He put his head in his hands. "So much more. And I wish it began and ended with Guy, but neither is true. Despite all my best wishes, all my moral leanings, all my attempts at reform – I remain a godless sodomite."

"No, Charles, G-d wouldn't do that to you – "

"He would. He hates me. If He created me, like all mankind, from dust of the earth, then truly I am just an evil design."

"Charles Bingley!" She did not relent, even for a moment. "Are you saying that that is the whole of you? That there is nothing else between... whatever deeds you are implying... and the rest of your person? That you have no other value on this earth?"

"According to the law, I don't deserve to live. According to G-d's cruel will, and Geoffrey's curiosity, I am still alive." He gathered his breath. "In Italy, I tried to take my life – with poison. Geoffrey, by some chance of luck, found me in time. I would not even tell you had I not promised – "

Elizabeth Bingley, the daughter of Charles and Jane Bingley, was her mother's daughter in almost every sense of the word. She never struck anyone, but she made an exception, and slapped him across the face with surprising vigor. He cowered as she, shocked at her own actions, pulled back. "I'm so sorry – I shouldn't have done that."

"You were angry at me." He looked away. "Geoffrey had the same reaction."

"I cannot even imagine what it would have been like, to receive you in a coffin," she said, her eyes filled with tears. "What a horrible thing to do to me. To say nothing of Mama and Papa!"

"I thought it was better you thought me a good dead man than a living sexual deviant."

"Well, you were wrong! You stupid, stupid man!" She put her hand over her mouth. "I didn't mean to say that. Charles, please believe me, I didn't mean to say that."

"You did mean it. I've not been very intelligent."

She hugged him – though it was more of a furious grab, her hands clinched so tight on his jacket that she nearly tore the clothing. "I don't care what you've been and haven't been on your own time. You're my brother and that's all that matters to me – that and your happiness, and you must know that this life of deceit has brought you none. Why do you pursue it?"

"It is my nature."

"Why don't you go to a doctor? They have them. Or a priest, at least. Or Mr. Grégoire – "

"I could never tell Mr. Grégoire."

"I suppose that's true," she said. "But you could see someone."

"I did – in London, and in Italy. I saw a physician, a surgeon, I saw priests both Protestant and Catholic. I even saw a lobotomist. He promised me a cure, at the cost of my intelligence and free will. I thought the price was too high."

"Then you showed good sense." She cupped his cheek. "You are not a terrible person. You are not unintelligent. You are capable of so many things, but you insist that you are not." She buried her face in his coat. "How I've worried about you. I thought you were dying of some disease so obscure that the doctors couldn't find it when I saw you in London. Do you remember when you tried to drink yourself to death?"

"I was trying to be discreet about it."

"Not very successfully, at least to me. You were lucky no one else was around, or that I didn't go running to Papa."

He looked her in the eyes. "Why didn't you?"

"Tell on you, like you'd been naughty? I didn't do that even when we _were_ children. You've given me no credit whatsoever." She could not maintain her indignation. "I suppose you were so lonely in your suffering that you had a lapse of reason, and forgot that you're my brother, and I can't imagine my life without you. So I forgive you, on the condition that you promise not to suffer your silence, and seek help."

"I don't think there is a cure, Eliza. Surely I would have found it already. Surely it would be more obvious."

"You go from being oblivious and comprehending nothing to thinking you comprehend everything. How can you do such a thing? You are positively confounding."

"How can you be so flippant?"

"How can I not, with such a conflict of character? It is ridiculous, though I know it pains you. In the end, nothing has changed: I am still your sister, and I love you. I would assume the same of you, though I am not sure what to think now."

"You're right. I am still your sister, and I love you," he said, and they burst out laughing. "And I hope you'll forgive me, someday, for all this foolishness, even if it weighs so heavily on me now."

"Make me a promise."

He groaned. "Since they arrived in Italy all I've done is make difficult promises!"

"You'll make it all the same," she said, holding his hand. "You will seek help, and if you do suffer, you will not do it in secret. Not from me."

"Not from you," he repeated. She was the one person he could say that too. "I promise."

... Next Chapter - Foreigners


	11. Foreigners

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 11 – Foreigners

After assuring Geoffrey that she was not ill, feeling like she would be ill, or even thinking that illness was a possibility on the horizon, Georgie went on a walk around the grounds of Pemberley with her sister. There was not a path, not a tree, not a patch of earth unknown to them, but it was refreshing anyway, especially in such fine weather.

They'd been home for a week now, and even from a distance of three miles, the change was obvious. Charles was settled to whatever extent he would be, and preparing himself for taking his sister to London. They would visit while Georgiana could still move around, but there was one conversation that did not need to be repeated, but needed to happen nonetheless.

"Did you really make him promise to tell me?"

"He would have done it anyway," Georgie said. "Perhaps he might have left out the bit about the poison, but if Geoffrey knew, and I knew, you deserved to know. It's hard for us to fathom how desperate he really must have been."

Eliza tightened her shawl around her. "I would always love him. How could he not know that?"

"Edmund has already turned his back on him, and that was his sole encounter with the situation. Besides, they're men. We can't expect that much intelligence from them."

Eliza giggled. "You're cruel."

"Perhaps a little. Sometimes it's called for."

"I just want him to be happy. I suppose he'll marry eventually, but most people don't marry for love. They marry for advantage or convenience. Or money. We're hopeless romantics to all think we'll marry for love. Our poor brother! Surrounded by such a crowd of women! How can he think otherwise?"

"He'll find the normal, unforgiving sort of woman easily enough in Town, if he's looking, but I don't think he will be. He's still young." Georgie looked at her sister. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"The Season? Town? Do any of these things having meaning for you?"

"I've been so wrapped up in Charles' distress, I admit I've not paid the proper attention to it. But Papa was so upset when Edmund married."

Georgie scoffed. "I'm not surprised."

"There's nothing wrong with Lucy. You're critical and you know it. Anyway, he was sad that another one of us was leaving him, and this was while Charles was gone. When I marry, he'll only have Charles."

"That's the way it's meant to be, and Papa knows that. If you meet someone, don't hesitate over what Papa might or might not think. All fathers are sentimental about their daughters. All _good_ ones, anyway."

"Geoffrey's so attentive to Alison. He really must be commended."

Georgie smiled. "If he must, try to do it carefully, so not to boost the ego of the heir to Pemberley and Derbyshire too much. There are already too many opportunities for that to happen in a single day."

********************************************

The family was not complete – as much as it could be – without a visit from the older Darcy siblings. Lord and Lady Kincaid, now with three children, made the journey from Scotland, and arrived with little complaint. "You should see what they've done to the roads, since it's become so fashionable to see the Highlands," Georgiana Kincaid (nee Darcy) said. "Please come and visit us sometime."

"I'm afraid it may not be that soon," Georgie said with a grin.

One boat ride and two days of traveling was what it took to bring the Bellamonts. Grégoire's beard mystified Alison, and Geoffrey was forced to continually remind her to stop staring at it. It wasn't especially long, but it did give a certain ancient demeanor, if he needed even more of that. Alison said she couldn't understand Caitlin at all.

"Dat makes two av us," Mrs. Bellamont said in response to Alison's mix of English and Japanese.

Patrick Bellamont, almost twelve, was teetering on the edge of puberty, with a voice he couldn't properly keep down (and he did try, his voice full of pride despite the occasional squeaks). He resembled Geoffrey in a way; they both had their hair cut properly but let the curls sort of go wild and unkempt. Perhaps from his father's influence, he could speak more clearly than his mother, at least on their English ears. Geoffrey conspired to pull him away and talk to his cousin, whom he so rarely saw even when they were in the same kingdom. Eventually he tempted him with fishing, though he spied his father telling the cook to run and buy some fish.

"So, Patrick," Geoffrey said as they sat down before the lake. Patrick, who lived on the ocean, was better at handling a rod than he was, even though there wasn't much to it with such steady water, "how have things been while we've been gone?"

"Me ma's been al' righ'. Me Pa wus rayle sick last summer."

"He was?"

"Aye." Patrick cast his line again, looking for the perfect spot with keener eyes than Geoffrey, even with unfamiliar waters. "It wus only for a few days, but he wus oyt cold."

"What was it?"

"We don't know. Me Pa 'ad a fever, an' he kept shoutin' things in 'is sleep. I wrote dem down, but after he came to, he tuk de papers an' put dem in a folder an' sealed it al' up." He treated it was a strange casualness, as if his father said and did bizarre things all the time. "Uncle Darcy came teh visit 'imself, but by de time he got dere, Pa wus already better."

"You never found out what it was?"

"Yeh 'av a bite, eejit!"

He hadn't noticed. Geoffrey brought up his rod to reveal a small fish, nothing to brag about but large enough to count as an actual 'catch.' "Luck of the Irish, I suppose."

"Yeh ain't Irish."

"My family is," he said and removed the fish, putting it in the water bucket. "So your father had you seal up all the things he said when he was feverish?"

"Dey weren't words, loike yeh and I know. An' I know Latin. Even Pa said, 'e didn' know wot dey meant."

"But they disturbed him."

Patrick recast his line. "Aye, but he's me Pa. 'e wroites a lot av stuff and doesn't know wot it means. 'e jus doesn't wan't people ta publish it. Me Pa, 'e doesn' want ta upset anybody. Dey asked 'im to speak in Belfast, but 'e wouldn't."

"About his columns?"

"'bout de Emancipation Act. So I could vote loike a Protestant."

Geoffrey was curious. "He was against it?" Grégoire, to his knowledge, was not a British subject even if he was a landowner, so he had no right to vote even if he denied his Catholicism.

"'e supported it, 'course. Pa said, 'I want ter stay oyt av politics.' I t'ink cuz he's still a churchman, he feels."

Geoffrey did not know the extent to which Patrick knew his own father's history with the church. Perhaps Uncle Grégoire only painted a rosy picture with his young son, to give him a good opinion of everything.

"I want ta do something for us Irish when I'm grown. All dese Sassenachs, tellin' us wot ta do."

"Remember who you're talking to, _cousin_."

"'ey, yer one of de good ones, yeh know dat. I don't 'ave ta say it."

"And your father is a Frenchman. Don't you forget that."

"Me Pa says issa hard t'ing, ta be in politics and be a good man, but I wanna try."

"That would be nice, to have a good politician."

"Aye, me Ma'll come whack me if I wus a bad one."

After an hour or so, they returned to the house, bearing three fish (two belonging to young Patrick). Uncle Grégoire was standing in the back door to greet them. "I see you've dredged up something, despite my brother's dire predictions."

"Luck o' de Irish!" Patrick said proudly, and his father patted him on the shoulder as he ran inside.

"So it seems my cousin wants to go into politics," Geoffrey said. "I suppose this isn't news to you."

"He's eleven. Hopefully his mind will change. And if not... well, he would have my vote."

********************************************

Time passed quickly for the Darcys. There was only one troubling night, early after their return, when Geoffrey ran to see his crying daughter, who would not be calmed by Nurse. "I don't want to stay here," Alison whimpered, hugging him as he sat next to her on her tiny bed. "I want to go home."

"This is our home."

"I liked Imbe. Everyone liked us there."

"Not everyone. We were foreigners. We didn't really belong, no matter how wonderful it was." He stroked her hair. "Besides, everyone here loves you. You must know that. Has anyone ever been mean to you? Even a servant?"

"No."

"Has anyone said an unkind word?"

"No." She sniffled. "I miss Mugen-san, and Sanjuro-san, and Lady Ayumi, and Hachiro-san, and Ayahito – "

"And I'm quite sure they all miss you," he said, "but while we were gone, our family here missed us _very_ much. You just don't remember them that well because you were so young, but they were so sad to see us go, and now they're so happy we've returned. It's not possible to be everywhere, but this is where we belong. You'll see." He rocked her gently until she fell asleep in his arms, then carefully set her back down on her own bed. In the morning, she was back to her old self.

The following week brought Sir Daniel and Lady Maddox, along with an excited Emily Maddox. Lady Maddox took a brief break from talking of her daughter's upcoming nuptials to corner Geoffrey. "I expected more from you."

She'd barely been in the house half an hour and already he was caught. He could only respond, "I gave it my best. He was intent on staying, and I couldn't make that decision for him."

"Well if you couldn't, Georgiana certainly could have. Where was she?"

"You can ask her, if you'd like."

"I will not bother her in her state!" she said with a furious indignation. "You will have to answer for her, Mr. Darcy. Now, what precisely caused you both to lose all reason and not resort to tying up my son and throwing him onto the boat?"

"Some people would consider that unreasonable."

"Would you leave Alison in Japan?"

"Alison is not a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. Nor will she ever be, come to think of it." He couldn't help but smirk, and Lady Maddox just rolled her eyes and stomped off. Geoffrey had barely time to breathe before he sighed at the familiar tapping of a cane.

"Now, you know I'm far less capable of assaulting you than Caroline," Dr. Maddox said. His cane hit Geoffrey's shoe and he stopped walking, his glasses giving him the appearance of staring straight ahead of him, slightly to Geoffrey's left.

"You've perhaps forgotten a certain incident involving a bookshelf."

Dr. Maddox laughed. "I never thought you would willingly bring that up. You must be truly repentant. Yes, I am very sad that my son did not come home as expected. I console myself with the notion that he surely would have done it if he knew Emily was engaged. That said, I am not all that surprised."

Geoffrey relaxed a little. "We were there a long time."

"And he became a samurai, or so I am told. But it turns out, that was not what he was seeking after all."

"I think it would please you to know that even in battle, your son could not bring himself to take a life, when... _others_... might have found it a simpler task."

"I understand it is not so much required of samurai as a necessary part of life."

"It can be, depending on what kind of life you lead."

Dr. Maddox nodded. "But, that was not what he was looking for. He wants to make peace with his fate, though you really can't, until it comes upon you. I tried to tell him that – I even used those words – but it's not something that can be communicated. It has to be experienced."

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing for you to be sorry for, Mr. Darcy. Though if you do not show me to Pemberley's very fine stock of wine soon, I will find a way to make you sorry."

Geoffrey took his arm. "Gladly, Dr. Maddox."

********************************************

Over the following month, everyone found an excuse to visit Pemberley, and the stories of their adventures were told and retold to exhaustion. Fortunately there were enough of them that no one heard the same story too many times, and several people heard different versions, and were left to talk between each other about what really happened.

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, the younger, were also an unintentional spectacle at church. Their trip was known of certainly in Lambton and the surrounding area, and not only was there open speculation about the future Darcy child's gender (often so loud that Georgiana could hear it from her pew), but there seemed to be a distinct concern by some of society that perhaps the heirs to Pemberley had found themselves a new faith in the East, as many good British soldiers were known to do. The people seemed almost disappointed that they had not. The Darcys, along with the rest of their extended family, attended church every Sunday with the same regularity of their pre-Oriental days. They listened dutifully to the harsh sermons of the old vicar, they followed along in the same book, and they sang along to the same hymns. Hopes of a scandal were dashed.

Despite all of the attention, there was one person whose absence they felt most keenly. Georgie Wickham was still in Paris, studying for his degree. Upon news of their arrival – which Mrs. Darcy rushed as soon as she had word herself – he wrote a letter welcoming them home, which arrived in Derbyshire as they were packing to leave for Lancashire, for a little peace and quiet before returning for Georgiana's confinement.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Darcy,_

_Congratulations on your successful trip to the Orient, and more importantly, your successful trip home. Please receive my goodwill from afar, as I am buried in my studies, none of which I will relate to you because those not of the doctorly profession often find them unpalatable. _

_I look forward to seeing you when I visit Isabel and Mr. Franklin._

_Sincerely,_

_Mr. George Wickham_

It was unfortunately brief, but they hadn't expected otherwise. It was a bit more smudged than George's normal letters, which were perfect, but he was writing in haste, and was likely a good deal worked up about his exams. It was not very satisfying, but it would have to do, if only for another two months.

With many hugs and too many kisses from their parents and siblings, Geoffrey, Georgiana, and Alison Darcy departed Derbyshire again, bound for a nearby county and their own country home and sanctuary. There an elated staff greeted them, but otherwise, they were alone. The area of Lancashire was fairly isolated by woods, and most of the people they knew worked for them or for other, more distant landlords.

A surprise awaited them. Geoffrey found it first, and handed it to his wife, whose response was to do her best to burst with joy. She read it aloud to her husband and daughter.

_Dear Jorgi-chan_

_Response to your letter. Now you have enjoy India and long boat ride. Please say hello to Brian-chan Nadi-sama and family, even Jeffrey's father. Never liked me very much. _

_Hello Alison!_

_Traders come to the island and help me on grammar I help them trade with locals not speaking Japanese. Still not very good. Found good places to fish and good women no complaints. Started little garden so I must stay when vegetables come up. Beat up drunk Chinese trader. Most interesting part of week. _

_Every day I pray for you like monk but I will not shave my head. Looks ridiculous._

_Please write long boring letter of boring England things. Make it very long. I want to hear from you. My best student. Jeffrey is also good I guess. He is useful. I miss him ordering my sake. Also, he take care of you and baby, or I kill him. I am making oath. _

_Mu Gen_

"Is Mugen going to come visit us?" was the first thing out of Alison's mouth. Her English was now quite fluent, but she still spoke Japanese to her parents, and they to her.

"I don't know, darling," Georgie said, wiping a tear from her eye. "He's very happy in his new home. Maybe in a few years."

Women were known to keep all of their letters, but Mugen's, Georgie pinned to the wall of her dressing chambers instead of stuffing it in a drawer with the rest of them. In privacy, her wardrobe was relaxed from the stifling gowns to the kimonos her maids could not figure out how to tie despite her tireless instruction. She still meditated, sometimes for hours a day.

"A man who did not know you better would question your sanity," Geoffrey said.

"Fortunately you _do_ know me better."

Geoffrey kissed her, and caressed her growing belly. Life was good – and it was quiet.

That was, until a letter from Isabel Wickham arrived a month later.

... Next Chapter - The Mysterious Case of George Wickham


	12. The Mysterious Case of George Wickham

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 12 – The Mysterious Case of George Wickham

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Darcy,_

_Please first be assured that I've been told that my confinement is progressing as usual, on the authority of both a doctor and my mother, who is experienced in the matter. You should see poor Saul, who is perhaps more nervous than I, but I will not waste more paper before coming to the point._

_It has been my brother's habit since he left for Cambridge to write me once a month, a habit he continued without fail when he went to study in France. Since the announcement of my condition, our correspondences have increased to simply replying whenever a letter is received, no matter how brief. As you know, I am due in a month, and in his last letter to me, George spoke of coming home within the next few weeks. That letter was received a month ago. _

_I have written him several times, and Saul even sent a solicitor to Paris, who has not turned up with anything. Apparently the University is not very particular about where its advanced students live or following up on them, and no Head has related any useful information, but simply said that George dropped a letter in his post that said he was going 'on break'. Since so many students are wont to do this, he thought nothing of it. _

_Every day I pray that George is merely in transit, and that his letters have been lost by some bad accident of timing, but I cannot sit by any longer. I must confess to you another thing which I had previously told no one, which is that George seemed increasingly stressed in the months prior to the last letter. At the time, I was very supportive in my responses but not overly inclined to suppose disaster, as he is under a great deal of academic stress and is alone in France. Rereading his letters, both Saul and I can see a clear degeneration in his handwriting, and to some extent, his lucidity._

_We are at a loss. Saul is eager to go to France, but does not want to leave me in my current state. We have not written to Uncle Darcy yet, but surely he could send his own solicitor to help?_

_Your Cousin_

_Mrs. Isabella Franklin_

Geoffrey paused over the letter, rereading it quickly to make sure he had missed nothing. He finally folded it and looked up at his wife. "I'm going to London."

"I'm coming."

"Alison?"

"We could send her back to Derbyshire, but I don't want to."

"Neither do I."

********************************************

It was decided and moved on even more quickly. They sent a note to Pemberley, saying they would be visiting the Franklins in Town, and ordered their bags packed. Alison did not seem upset; she was always ready for a new adventure, and just about any trip qualified as one.

A full three days later, they arrived, exhausted and sore from the road. Geoffrey ordered the coach not directly to the Darcy townhouse, which was shut, but to the Franklin townhouse. It was rather late at night, meaning that fashionable Ton was just getting ready for the evening.

Saul received them with surprise. "Mr. Darcy!" He paused. "Mrs. Darcy. Miss Darcy."

"Mr. Franklin."

"Cousin Franklin!"

Mr. Franklin smiled and waved at Alison before turning to the parents. "I assume this is about the letter."

"It is."

"Is your house shut? Because if this is your only reason to be in Town, you are welcome to stay here."

"If it would be good for Isabel," Georgie answered, and Mr. Franklin ordered their bags brought in to the guest chambers. Their hats and coats removed, they were brought to the drawing room, where Isabel Franklin sat with her sewing needles and some cloth, which she dropped. "Georgie! Geoffrey! I didn't mean for you to come racing – "

"You did," Geoffrey said as his wife hugged a very pregnant Mrs. Franklin. "Alison, say hello to your cousin, and then it's to bed with you."

"I'm hungry." She did stop to curtsey. "Cousin Franklin."

"Then we'll get you something to eat first," Mr. Franklin said. "I'm sure the cook has something for you." With a nod from Geoffrey, he picked her up and carried her off, leaving them with Isabel.

She immediately broke down in tears, having a handkerchief at the ready. "I know something's happened. He wouldn't disappear – and certainly not _now_."

Georgie sat beside her, taking her hand. "He would never abandon you intentionally. There's been some sort of mix-up."

"He could be in one of his... you know, _states_," Geoffrey said. "He's a bit of a recluse. Doesn't talk to anybody. He might go so far as to not trust the postman."

"Then why wouldn't he just _come home?_"

"He might not -," It suddenly occurred to Geoffrey that Charles was right. Maybe if they were more open about his 'condition,' they would take better care of George. They wouldn't let it get to extremes. "He might not know he can safely come home."

"He loses his reason. We all do, from time to time," Georgie said. "Just... George can lose it more. Especially when he's isolated and stressed."

"He has been so stressed. I don't know why. He's perfectly capable of passing all of his exams – "

"He doesn't know that," Geoffrey said. "Even I was nervous when it came down to the last minute, and I wasn't doing a particularly hard course of studies."

Mr. Franklin reappeared. "Mr. Darcy, your daughter is being taken upstairs with some milk and pudding."

"One of us will be up in a minute," he said. "It said in Isabel's letter you sent a solicitor to Paris?"

"Yes, but he couldn't dig up much – only that George was missing."

"And the Heads weren't at all concerned?"

"Students come and go all the time, especially at the upper levels, or if they don't live on campus. They don't make any attempt to keep track of them. And he left a note."

"Did your man search his rooms?"

"He couldn't get past the Head. He could barely get anything out of him."

Geoffrey lowered his voice. "Did you have George reported as a missing person?"

"To the Paris police? Not yet. I've been to Paris, and I honestly don't think they would care about a missing Englishman of no importance unless they were given a reason."

"Like a bribe."

"Yes."

Geoffrey nodded. "I'll go."

"What's this?" Georgie said.

Geoffrey turned back to his wife and cousin, raising his voice again. "I'll go to Paris to find George. My French is good enough to bribe my way through their University system enough to find out where Wickham has holed himself up, which is probably what happened. It won't take them more than a few sovereigns to care, but someone has to be there in front of them to do it."

To his relief, Georgie did not object. It was Isabel who stood. "Geoffrey, I cannot ask – "

"You need not ask. George is my cousin. I'm going to find him, and I'm sure if not for her condition, Georgie would go, too. You could have a small army invade if you'd like, but I assume you want to keep this quiet."

"George will be so upset when he finds out. I'm sure of it."

It was not the most logical thing to say, but it made some sense when speaking of the highly secretive, easily-embarrassed George Wickham. "As you say," Geoffrey nodded. "Mr. Franklin, do you mind hosting my wife and daughter while I am abroad?"

"Of course not. We will be grateful for their company."

He turned to his wife. "I'm going to put Alison to bed."

"I'll come. Excuse us."

It was all happening in a blur. When they ascended the stairs and found the nursery Alison was already halfway asleep, but not enough not to notice them on sight. "Mama! Papa! Why is Cousin Franklin so fat?"

Geoffrey welcomed the relieving feeling of a laugh. "I'll leave that for your mother to explain." He kissed his daughter on the cheek. "Good night."

"You don't play fair, Darcy," Georgie said. "Tomorrow, darling. Good night."

Alison put up some fuss, but the weariness that came with the road eventually caught up with her, and she fell asleep tugging the edges of her Japanese blanket.

"You don't mind me going without you?" Geoffrey said as he shut the door behind them.

"Unfortunately, I don't have a choice in the matter," Georgiana said, "as I cannot absolutely, positively guarantee that if something resembling a fight broke out, or needed to be broken out, I would not respond. Besides, Izzy needs me here. That much is clear. Who else is she supposed to lean on? I doubt she's even told her mother. She shouldn't be alone like this."

He kissed her. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Because you're a loving husband?"

"Because I don't want you to beat me in my sleep tonight."

She punched him in the shoulder, but only hard enough to make him laugh.

********************************************

Preparations for Geoffrey's departure began immediately. They went downstairs to find Isabel sobbing again, and it took both of them to calm her down, reminding her it was bad for the baby, before she would go upstairs. Georgie refused to join her in retiring. Mr. Franklin reappeared, and they joined him in his study, where he opened the drawer containing all of George Wickham's recent correspondences. None of them were of a particularly private nature, and most of their content was inquiries into his sister's health and happiness, with the occasional question about their mother, stepfather, or the family at large. Geoffrey and Georgiana poured over them, reading about George's request for news of their own well-being while abroad, along with those for his mother before she delivered her sixth child, another daughter for Mr. Bradley. He spoke little of his studies, which were all now focused on medicine, though in the earlier letters he had a remark or two about a new book he'd heard of or read and recommended as leisure reading.

As Isabel described, George's handwriting became increasingly odd. The letters were frantically pushed together, so neatly done to still be legible, but so harshly done to create blots or push the pen right through the paper. There were smudges on the last few letters, while the earlier ones were pristine, which Mr. Franklin said was more to form.

George did not report any ill health, or incidents of note in his own life besides his studies, and he probably had none to report. His last letter read, _Pierre says I worry too much._

"Who is Pierre?"

"His Tutor," Saul said. "He's the only person George has ever mentioned other than various professors he felt were of note in academia, but of course I failed to recognize them."

"Do you have a full name?"

"No – but George does. They may be on a receipt in his room. He lives here when not in France. I made a minor inspection of it a few days ago, but he's not been home since Christmas, and I found nothing that looked new."

"Do you know the name of his mistress?"

Saul looked at him blankly.

"George always keeps a mistress – though he doesn't call her that – in whatever city he's in."

"I had no idea."

Georgie smirked. "You wouldn't. He's _so secretive_ about it that he would never tell the husband of his sister. I know because Geoffrey knows, because Geoffrey was his roommate at Cambridge."

"If George is in legitimate distress, I'd prefer not to waste any time, and begin searching his room now, if you don't mind."

Mr. Franklin nodded. "As you wish. I'll show you the way. I keep it locked when he's abroad." He retrieved a set of keys and carried them up the stairs, and to a room on the second floor, which he unlocked. "It will probably be dusty." He brought in a candlestick and used it to light the various candles around the room, giving it some light.

George Wickham's room was quite modest, and probably would have looked larger than it did without deep and heavy bookshelves on each wall. There was a writing desk in a side chamber, and books stacked up on it. Geoffrey sat down at the desk, set the books down on the floor, and tried to open the drawer, only to find it locked.

"I don't have the keys," Mr. Franklin confessed.

"Not a problem," Georgie said, and shoving her husband out of the way, Georgie removed a pin from her bonnet and put it in the lock. "Some more light, please." Geoffrey set the lantern on the desk beside her as she worked, until she heard a click, and the drawer came open. "At least I'm of some use."

Geoffrey retook his place, and fully opened the drawer to reveal a mess of papers – letters, receipts, and notes of all kinds. "This will take a while."

"You needn't strain your eyes. It will be light in a few hours."

"You're correct," Geoffrey said, but grabbed the top of the pile and carried it with him. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Isabel is so worried. I don't know what I would have done had you not shown up."

They said their goodnights and separated, and Geoffrey and Georgie were shown to their rooms. They chose hers to sleep in. Georgie was already in bed when Geoffrey entered in his bedclothes. He climbed in with her, setting the candlestick beside him and taking the stack of receipts with him.

"You are quite determined."

"Would you have me be anything else?" he said. "Fortunately Wickham has exceptional handwriting. This seems to be a grocer list for some drought." He placed it neatly on the dresser. "A list of medicinal treasuries." Georgie lied down, watching him as he worked. "Finally! A bill. It's in French. For the month of... I think February, last year."

"So, over a year ago."

"Yes, if that is intended to be the date up there, but I can still make it out. He has it by week, the compulsive bugger. Grocer bill, laundress, transportation..."

Georgie leaned over. "What's this?"

"That? Whatever it is, it's several times a week. Just initials. M.V." He squinted to make sure. The amount and initials were always the same. "That must be his mistress."

She laughed. "I suppose it must be. Or was, at the time. The 'M' is probably for Madame. I doubt he knows her full name."

Geoffrey grinned. "Why is it we know all this about a secretive man like George Wickham?"

"Poor George. What else is on the bill?"

"Aha! He pays his Tutor monthly. Or he did - ___ francs. Pierre Bontecou, _T_. For Tutor, I assume."

"Is that a lot?"

"I don't know, but it looks like it. When George does pay for things, he does not cheat people." He set the papers aside, and lied down. "So we have one name, and one set of initials, which is more than Saul's solicitor has."

"You are very good at coming to the rescue."

"I should be. I'm a Darcy."

********************************************

Geoffrey spent the next day with the available Darcy staff in London, freeing up cash for his travels and making arrangements for transportation and service. His wife would be well-accommodated at the Franklin house. He bought a new travel dictionary of French phrases in case he was rusty, and both Isabel and Mr. Franklin briefed him on what they knew of George's studies and time in Paris. Finally, he bought a ticket for passage to France the next morning, and would be in Paris by the end of the week.

He came home exhausted, and was about to disrobe for a bath before dinner when he saw a silk wrapping on the dresser. Giving his wife only a questioning look, he opened it to find a pistol and his Japanese jutte, the symbol of his authority as a constable in Imbe. It was really quite a useless weapon, good mainly for blocking swords and pointing at people. "What possible use – "

"Don't question it," she said. "Just take them."

"I've no intention of shooting anyone. This isn't Japan."

"That's what the jutte is for."

He turned to her, and she ran into his arms. "I do so wish to go with you."

"I know."

"Do you think George is alive?"

He sighed. "It's best not to speculate." He added, "But I have faith that he is."

"I didn't want to bring this up," she said, reaching into her purse and handing him a card, "but for George, I think you should have every advantage."

He looked at her handwriting. _Inspector Robert Audley, Paris Police_. "Who is he?"

"I know – I _knew_ him from France. He was sent to investigate a murder and he protected me from Heather's fiancé – or, he tried to." She looked down, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know if he's still an inspector, but if he is, all you need do is say that I sent you, and he'll help you."

It took a moment. "This is..."

"_The_ 'Robert' from France, yes."

His voice was colder than he intended it to be. "Why would he help _me?_"

"Maybe he won't – but you should at least try, if you really get stuck."

She was right: a Parisian inspector would be a valuable contact, and he more than likely would either find George in his dorm room or be utterly overwhelmed in his search. Geoffrey repeated that to himself several times to push down the other, angrier emotions associated with this person he had never met, but had taken something that was meant for him. "If I run out of options, I will look him up." He put the card in his jacket pocket, just to prove it. He raised her chin with his forefinger to find her eyes red and watery. "Allow me at least one good punch. After we've found George, of course."

"Of course, but I'd advise against it. He is a policeman."

"True." He put on a smile for her, because she was his wife, and she was carrying his child, and he couldn't bear to see her upset at all, much less right now. "If it's necessary, I'll look him up. Thank you."

She nodded, and he kissed her. He wasn't sure who needed it more.

********************************************

The last barrier between Geoffrey and his impromptu trip to France was only three feet tall, but she was a barrier all the same.

"Where are you going?"

"To France."

"Why?"

"I have to find your Cousin Wickham."

"Where did he go?"

"I'm not sure. I'll find out when I get there."

"Can I go?"

Geoffrey shook his head. "No."

"But I could help!"

"I'm afraid not. You'll stay home with Mama and help her and Cousin Franklin."

"Mama's not going? But who will protect you?"

He ignored Georgie's laughter. "I'm very capable of defending myself, thank you very much."

"Who will tuck me in?"

"Your mother."

"Who will buy me presents?"

"Your Uncle Charles, I'm sure."

"Who will sing to me?"

"I never sang to you."

She nearly jumped into his arms. "Papa, don't leave me."

"I won't be long."

"Promise?"

He kissed her. "Promise."

That was not enough; Geoffrey was forced to carry Alison all the way to the docks on his shoulders, and she would not let him go until the very last horn sounded for him to board. "Remember your promise!"

"I'll be home soon." He set her down beside her mother. "I promise."

"Bring George home." Georgie added in a whisper, "However you can."

He nodded, shook Saul's hand, and walked across the plank. The little ship would take several hours, almost half a day to get across to France, but when his family disappeared in the morning mist, it seemed like he had left them in another world.

... Next Chapter - An Unfamiliar Face


	13. An Unfamiliar Face

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 13 - An Unfamiliar Face

Geoffrey Darcy did not remember not knowing of Paris. He had heard talk of it, known people who lived there, and seen constant drawings in the paper of events there all his life. Sixteen years after the final conquest of Napoleon, the city was still as fashionable as ever, and as a result, there were enough Englishmen around to point him in the right direction. He met with Mr. Franklin's solicitor, who was relieved to have someone else take over his search, which had proved fruitless. The solicitor set Geoffrey up in a fine hotel.

From there, Geoffrey moved into more foreign territory. The University of France, formerly the University of Paris, was made up of dozens of small academies. George Wickham was a student at the famous medical school, which was near all of the best (and most gruesome) clinics, where hundreds gathered to watch every surgery and autopsy. He had the name of the Rector, which he presented to the door guards. Eventually a few francs persuaded one of them to open the door and escort him past a sea of gowns and wigs to a Gothic building now used for administration. It looked as though it might have been a monastery at one point, and they were certainly behind on the renovations.

"Monsieur," the guard said, gesturing to the wooden chair outside the office. Like everything else, it smelled ancient. He took his seat and waited, flipping through his French phrasebook and his notes. Students passed by him carrying medical bags and books, speaking a number of European languages, and he began to wonder if he had been forgotten entirely.

Finally the door swung open and a servant, a young boy in a gown, showed him in. The Rector's office was impressively full of artifacts and dust. "Thank you for seeing me," Geoffrey said in French. "I am looking for my cousin, Monsieur George Wickham. He is meant to complete his studies here in July and become a physician."

"I spoke with an Englishman already on this," said a very disinterested Rector. "Monsieur Wickham has left. A leave of absence, perhaps."

"It is of great concern to his family that we cannot find him. He has never gone missing before."

"I cannot account for his whereabouts, Monsieur."

"When he left, did he take his possessions?"

The Rector flipped open a book and began to page through it before he found what he was looking for. "_Non_. They are still here, and he is paid out for the year. If he does not reappear, his items will be boxed and stored for five years, and then they will be discarded or sold."

"Did he keep a servant?"

"Of that I am not aware."

"May I have access to his room?"

"No, Monsieur, I cannot have every Englishman traipsing in here – "

"I am his cousin! Geoffrey Darcy."

"It would be an invasion of his personal liberties. You may remember that in France, we take liberty very seriously."

"On occasion," he muttered to himself in English. "What do I need to get permission? A signature of some sort?"

"From him, yes. But that is the problem, is it not? Or you can get a warrant from the police." He chuckled. "It will not be easy to obtain."

"What about his Tutor? A... Pierre Bontecou."

"His name is not familiar. Is he a Fellow of this college or another?"

Geoffrey hung his head. "I don't know."

"Then come back when you do, Monsieur d'Arcy. Until then, I can be of little use to you."

********************************************

Geoffrey was not allowed to openly wander the college grounds, at least not in the location of the dorms. Nor was he permitted in the lecture halls. After paying a man several francs to tell him where he might find students and professors outside of the walls of the academy itself, he was directed to a number of clinics.

He had only his previous exposures to violence and gore to help him while trying to navigate through the public clinics, meant more as a teaching tool than a major center of healing. Avoiding the bodies, dead and alive, being carted around, he made his way through students, physicians, holding up George's portraiture and inquiring after him best he could. "_Avez-vous vu cet homme? Son nom est George Wickham."_

There were a few positive responses, in French and broken English. "We were in a lecture together last year. We sat next to each other and shared notes."

"Have you seen him recently?"

"_Non_."

Another man had more to say. "Wickham? No, haven't seen him in at least a month. I'm not surprised. He is a very quiet guy. We study, but we still have fun. He always studied."

"Do you know Pierre Bontecou? That's his Tutor."

The sandy-haired man paused. "I've heard of him, but I don't think I've seen him. He doesn't live in the college. Some old student who never graduated."

No one could offer him any information that would lead him to George. No one had seen him, or Pierre, in the last month at least, or possibly several. Wickham was a quiet student, polite but very shy, who mainly stayed in the library or in his room, studying, so they hadn't even noticed he was gone. His Tutor was someone not associated with the academy itself, so that road was a dead end unless he found someone who personally know Pierre Bontecou, and that seemed like an impossible task.

Exhausted, he returned to the hotel and had his dinner sent up. The food was fabulous, but he hardly tasted it. He did taste the wine, which softened the sharp edges of his overactive mind. He penned a quick letter about his safe arrival and lodgings for his wife to go out in the morning post, and retired to his chambers with his notebook and the open bottle.

Wickham was either sick in some hospital, hiding in a bout of paranoia somewhere he thought was safe, or dead. The last option was the most likely, but surely his body would have turned up by now? So Geoffrey consoled himself as he drifted off to sleep.

********************************************

When he woke, Geoffrey was in no mood for Paris, with its ancient streets and famous avenues. To him they all looked grimy and not dark enough, mainly because he had a headache and the fine spring sun was making it worse. Like a good Parisian, he nursed it with a bit more wine, then set off for another day of knocking on doors. It was a shame he did not have the name of George's mistress. That would have gotten him far.

"_Avez-vous vu cet homme? Son nom est George Wickham."_

The students looked at the portraiture – admittedly, not the most recent picture – and shook their heads.

"I know him," someone finally said. "He tutored me in Latin and I helped him get into a surgical lecture only for physicians. My father was one of them. But that was last semester."

"Have you seen him since?"

"Yes – it must have been February. We exchanged a few words, but very little."

"What did he say?"

"Almost nothing. I was trying to be nice, but I felt like I forced him into the conversation. He said he was fine, but very busy. How well do you know Wickham?"

"He's my cousin. I've known him all my life."

The student nodded. "So you know, he can be very hard to approach."

"Yes, but did he seem agitated?"

"Maybe a little. It's always hard to tell. He is a very complex man. It's very subtle."

Geoffrey could only agree. "Do you know Pierre Bontecou?"

"His Tutor, yes."

His eyes might have been shining with hope. "Tell me about him."

"I only met him once, in passing, when I came to Wickham's apartment. And Wickham spoke of him a few times, also in passing. He's a failed doctor – never managed to graduate, but not currently a student – but very knowledgeable as a Tutor. Wickham praised him."

"Do you know anything else about him? Where he lives? Where he's from?"

"_Non_, but if he's made a living off tutoring, he must still be in Paris, or somewhere else with a large medical student population. There are little colonies of students and former students like him, in cheap neighborhoods, looking for work. If you ask about needing a Tutor, maybe you'll find him. But you are not a student, no? So that wouldn't help. We go through the University."

"May I ask your name?"

"Adrien Basset. Yours?"

"Geoffrey Darcy." He gave him his card, with the name of the hotel on the back. "This is where I'm staying. His family is looking for him. Will you let me know if you hear anything?"

"I will keep my ears open, Monsieur d'Arcy."

He bowed. "Thank you, Monsieur Basset."

It was his only real victory of the morning. He did not return to the hotel, but stopped in one of those new _restaurants_ for lunch. By now he had memorized his notes, so he bought a paper, and read it with his lunch. In the back were ads for missing persons, mainly soldiers and runaways. The bottom line directed him to the Parisian police department, to put in a claim before posting in the paper.

He could put it off no longer.

********************************************

The tiny island of Île de la Cité was one of the two natural islands occurring within the city of Paris, within the Seine. It was the medieval center of Paris, and full of landmarks, but more importantly to Geoffrey, it was the location of the _Prefecture de Police_. He braced himself to be shoved around, and he was. It was an hour before he even located the office for missing persons, and another half hour before he could find anyone who would speak to him.

"What is his name?" said the officer, refusing to speak French to him.

"George Wickham."

"Where is he from?"

"London. But he's been living here for four years, as a University student."

"When did he disappear?"

"The last note we have from him was a little over a month ago, and no one can remember seeing him since then."

"You talked to the Rector of his academy?"

"He didn't know where he was. He said I needed a warrant to open Mr. Wickham's room."

"So at least he's not a rotting corpse in there, or it would smell!" The officer laughed, to Geoffrey's horror. "It is very hard to get a warrant."

Geoffrey set his money pouch down on the table.

"It is not so simple. You have to at least have a suspect for his murder."

"I don't know if he's dead."

"Then you can't serve him a warrant. You have to declare him dead."

"I don't have any proof that he is, thank G-d."

"Then you are in a bad situation. You fill this out, then we'll give you a notice, and you can post it in the paper that you're looking for him."

He took the paper and quickly filled it out. "Does it ever work?"

"It depends if he wants to be found."

He was dismissed by the officer turning away, handing him a card of the department as he did. Geoffrey sighed, and said, "I'd like to speak to Inspector Audley."

The officer looked back at him. "Who?"

"Inspector Robert Audley." He pulled the card from his pocket. "He – used to work here, some years ago. I don't know if he – "

"He still does, yes. He is a very important detective. Not someone to ask about a lost relative."

He was relieved – and a little disappointed, in the back of his mind – to learn the man existed and was still around. "I want to speak with him anyway."

"The door marked five is his department. If you will find him there, I don't know. If he will have time for you, I don't think so."

The doors were not even numbered correctly. It took Geoffrey twice around before he found the right door. The department was a mess, full of desks and papers, but also stacks of items with tags. Perhaps they were evidence. "_Excusez-moi_," he said to the uniformed man at the front desk. "_Je recherche l'inspecteur Audley_."

The man eyed him with disdain, probably over his badly-pronounced French, and pointed. "Blond. _Longue veste_."

"_Merci beaucoup_," he said to the officer, who already wasn't listening, and passed a number of empty desks. Near the back, in front of a pile of record books and a bookshelf filled with broken weapons, pieces of bloodied cloth, and things in jars, was a man standing over an open registry book as an assistant puttered around impatiently. He was, indeed, blond, his hair long and somewhat unkempt, and he was not in uniform, but wearing a long brown jacket over his disheveled clothing. He was taller than Geoffrey, but not by much. "_Excusez-moi. Êtes-vous inspecteur Audley?"_

The man eyed him, not with disdain but with curiosity, and shut the book. "I am. May I help you?" His accent was almost perfectly British, with only hints of French influence.

"I am looking for my cousin, George Wickham. He is a medical student at the University of France who's been missing for over a month. He's due home now, but he didn't respond to letters and the Rector doesn't know where he is and won't open his apartments – "

The inspector said calmly, "Missing persons is down the hall, to your right, door number 12."

"I know. I came from there. Please." He retrieved the card with Audley's name on it, though he wasn't sure why. "My name is Geoffrey Darcy. My wife said you could help me."

Audley set the book down, and the assistant scurried away. He took the card, even though it said only his name, and regarded Geoffrey with new interest. "And your wife is...?"

"Mrs. Georgiana Darcy. Formerly Bingley."

If Geoffrey wasn't so nervous, he might have been angrier at the obvious reaction on the weathered inspector's face. It was mild shock, or it seemed that way. "Miss Bingley."

"Yes." He said, with as much force as he could muster in his harried, worried state, "She is my wife. She told me if I asked, you would help us."

Audley kept looking at Geoffrey. It was really unnerving how quickly it was dissolving into a staring contest. "I vaguely remember – a Miss Bingley – "

"I know – how you _know_ her," he said. It was better to get it over with. "The Marquis de Maret. Lady Littlefield, now Lady Heather Maddox. The wolf." He swallowed. "_Every_thing."

It would be, perhaps, unclear to an observer who was eyeing the other more suspiciously – the former lover or the jealous but desperate husband. Geoffrey said at last, "George Wickham is our cousin on both sides. His father was my blood uncle, and his mother is my mother's sister, and Mrs. Darcy's mother's sister. He was due home because his sister, Mrs. Franklin, is nearing the end of her term. He would never abandon her – not for any reason I can think of. I need to find him. I will pay for a private - "

"There's no need. I am a public servant," Audley said, handing him back the card. He grabbed his hat from the top of the bookshelf and put it on. "I will help you find your cousin, but you realize that we might only find a corpse?"

"I know."

"He's missing, no? Then we have not a moment to lose."

********************************************

They had drinks at a tavern – not too seedy, not too expensive. There, in a private corner that the server already knew what to give Audley, Geoffrey gave him all the key facts – George's studies, his habits, his letters home, his disappearance, and whatever else was in his notebook.

"Who is M.V.?"

"His courtesan. Or she was, about a year ago."

"How do you know?"

"His receipts. He paid her per session, and he had a very regular schedule. I lived with him at Cambridge."

Audley was very concentrated but at the same time informal and polite. Once he was involved in the case, the air was at least temporarily cleared. "He wrote down every payment to a prostitute, or was she a mistress?"

"Prostitute. And he's very prodigious about keeping records of his money. He's not a miser, but he's protective of it."

"Is he wealthy?"

"He has about two thousand pounds a year."

"So for a student, extremely wealthy."

"Yes, but it's hard to notice. He's always lived far below his means. When he was growing up, he wasn't very poor, but in comparison to the larger family, the Wickhams were destitute."

"So how did he come into his money?"

Geoffrey took another sip of wine. "My father killed Uncle Wickham – his half-brother – in a duel. It was in self-defense, but my father felt terrible about it, and set up a trust for both the Wickham children so when they came of age, they would not have to worry. It was a trust so his mother couldn't get to it. She's bad with money."

"Where is his mother now? Is she alive?"

"Yes, and she's remarried. Her name is Mrs. Bradley. They have six children. He lived with them until he went to Cambridge, and so did his sister."

"Does he get along with his stepfather?"

"Better than his actual mother, but I think they've been on good terms since his sister married."

Audley made a few notes in his book, but they were barely more than chicken scratches. "Does his mother have access to his money?"

"None whatsoever. My father made sure of it."

"Does his stepfather?"

"No. I don't see why he would. George even controlled his own sister's inheritance money, and withheld it when they tried to marry her to a man without investigating his background. Turned out to be a fortune hunter. George discovered this after riding to Scotland in December to stop the ceremony. She was fifteen at the time. Between then and her marriage three years ago, George has assumed almost all responsibility for her. He would never leave her at a time like this, even though he did approve of her husband and so has been able to stop worrying over her so much and have a life of his own."

"This is the expectant sister?"

"Yes."

"When is she due?"

"About a month. He is supposed to be home by now." He took another drink. The wine was so very, very good. It was hard to hold himself back. "His mother isn't involved in his life much now – not while he's in France, certainly. Aunt Bradley doesn't speak a word of French."

Audley kept taking notes, eating with the fork in his other hand. "Has Mr. Wickham ever disappeared like this?"

"Never. Even when he's been abroad – and only to France or Ireland – he's always been in constant contact with his sister."

"Does he have any known enemies?"

"None that I know of. He's a terse person – not comfortable around people, but polite. Once you get to know him, he's a caring person; he just has an abrasive way of showing it. But we all know it. He can't stand to have enemies. I don't think he's ever been in a fight in his life – even in school." He paused. "He punched me when we were drunk. We were maybe thirteen. Or maybe it was the other way around. Aside from that, nothing."

"So he drinks?"

"No. Barely at all. He has a very low tolerance."

"Does he gamble?"

"Never."

"But he has consorts?"

"Only one at a time. He views it... very dryly. A need that he has to fulfill."

"Does he have any diseases?"

Geoffrey nearly choked on his wine. "G-d, I hope not. I doubt it. The man is a step away from being a physician."

"Doctors don't always take their own advice."

"He does."

Audley nodded. "So he's not given to erratic behavior."

Geoffrey gulped. "Well... that's not entirely true."

Audley only needed to look up, his eyes like daggers. Yes, more wine was required.

... Next Chapter - The Darcy Inheritance


	14. The Darcy Inheritance

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 14 – The Darcy Inheritance

They walked along the Seine, pausing in a more secluded spot. Geoffrey sat on the ledge looking at the skyline as Audley leaned against the wall of the building and took notes.

"My family – the Darcy bloodline – has a history of mental infirmary. My great-uncle was disinherited and sent to a private home on an island so the younger son, my grandfather, could inherit the estate. It was a secret for many years, but when I was a boy, my father decided to return his Uncle Gregory to his place in history and his bones to the family graveyard.

"Uncle Wickham was not the son of Mr. Wickham, the steward of Pemberley, my family's estate. He is the bastard son of Mrs. Wickham and my grandfather, after whom I am named. Therefore, George and I share the same Darcy grandfather. My grandfather I never knew, but I understand he was a stable person, though he fathered two sons outside of his marriage. My Uncle Wickham was a rake and a gambler, and had a bad reputation at the time of his death. George has limited memory of him.

"I think it was after George saved his sister from a disastrous marriage that we became aware of it, or at least, I became aware of it. He was eighteen, and thrown out of his house by his mother. We took him in, but he was in a peculiar state of mind."

"How do you mean?" Audley said.

"He had a fever, but it was not only that. He was afraid of his doctor. He said very strange things. He was utterly paranoid, and his mother only worsened the situation. My father managed to smooth it out between them, and he recovered. Only then did my father reveal to me that George probably suffers from the same sickness that Great-Uncle Gregory did, and my father does, to a much lesser extent. They called it monomania, but we've come to understand that it is a diagnosis with no meaning. When something agitates him, or when he is overtired, George becomes reclusive. He..." he trailed off. Audley stood, waiting with his book. "Forgive me. I want to find him, but these are not secrets we tell the family in general, let alone a policeman."

Audley nodded. "It will be completely confidential, and could aid the investigation."

Geoffrey took another swig of the wine bottle he was working on. "He has very paranoid thoughts, that people mean to do him harm. He knows they're irrational but he can't free himself of them. He has bouts of terrible insomnia. He flees all social connections – with the exception of his sister, always. When he has a chance to remove himself from the current stress, he relaxes. Occasionally he goes to Ireland, where our Uncle Grégoire, the other bastard uncle, lives. However, he _never_ leaves without telling numerous people. In some people he has absolute trust – his sister, my father, myself, Georgi – Mrs. Darcy. He would not run off on his own."

"Does he ever become violent?"

"No. Never."

"You said earlier he wrote the Rector that he was leaving. I can only conclude that unless the Rector is outright lying, he did not have him committed."

Geoffrey looked up. "Do you think he could be committed? On what authority if not the academy's?"

"It takes a judge to rule that a person is insane and should be sent to an asylum against their will, and it costs money to pay for their stay. It would not be an easy task, and I do not know what someone would gain by doing it – at least, not yet. Where is his money?"

"I don't know. In London, I imagine, but there are banks here in France, so he has access to it. He is very careful about who has access to his account. More so than the average individual."

Audley shifted his weight. "It gives him a reason not to be dead."

"What?"

"If his body is found and he is declared dead, his accounts are frozen until they can be distributed to his heirs. Who stands to inherit his money?"

"I have no idea. His sister, I suppose. We've never had a discussion about it."

"So you are not a designated heir, nor do you know for sure of anyone who is."

"I only designated my own heirs because I was going abroad – and farther than France. We went to Japan. We've only just come back."

"We?"

"Yes. Me, Georgiana, and Alison." He said it without thinking. "We haven't seen George in three years."

"Alison?"

"Alison Darcy. Our daughter."

Audley merely said, "Oh." His face, however, betrayed his emotions, which were considerably mixed, but mainly surprised. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." He didn't want to discuss his family anymore. He quickly changed the subject. "Even if George wanted to change his will, assuming he has one, he would have to do it in London with the family solicitor. No one could legally get him to change it here."

"Then be relieved – he's more than likely alive, if it's money that's the target, and not his actual person," Audley said. "They've closed now, but first thing tomorrow, we'll go to the bank, and see if his accounts have been drawn on. You may have access to his paperwork, and if not, I can get it. In the meantime, I'm going to send a runner."

"To where?"

"To the asylums in the area – to look for a patient named George Wickham."

********************************************

They spoke on the way back to the station, and Geoffrey shared the last of what he had – the information on the missing Tutor, Mr. Bontecou, and the name of the Rector. They parted amicably, setting a time and place for their meeting the next morning, and Geoffrey returned to his hotel. He ordered his dinner brought up. He wanted a moment alone.

That was not true. He wanted Georgie there, lying beside him on the overstuffed mattress. He wanted to hear Alison's laughter. He wanted his father's sage advice. Should he have told him? Isabel made him promise not to unless it came to that, and it had not yet come to that. He was making progress.

Inspector Audley was quite helpful and obviously quite talented, drawing conclusions from only two simple discussions and immediately knowing how to follow up on them. Was someone keeping George incarcerated to get his money? Why would it take them this long? But if his accounts had been emptied, would there be a notice in London? Would his father be told? Geoffrey suddenly didn't know enough about George's personal finances, which were never his business anyway. He omitted only one thing to the inspector, which was that George was intended to be the godfather of their next child, so maybe he had money set aside for that, but it didn't seem relevant, even with Georgie pregnant. George didn't know that, and Inspector Audley didn't need to know that.

After dinner, he drew a fresh sheet of paper and sat there in front of it, not sure of what to write. He did have a reason to be hopeful that George was alive, in whatever condition he was in, and that was good, but somehow the words were hard to put onto the page without mentioning Audley. Of course he had to mention him – and perhaps Georgie would be pleased that he listened to her, or disappointed that he had hit a wall so fast, or just pleased in general, which was upsetting.

_Why are you jealous of some Parisian inspector?_ He already knew the answer, but it was worth repeating. _She's yours. She's your wife and you have a daughter with her, and perhaps soon, another child. _She felt bad even bringing up his name – that much was obvious. _This is about George Wickham. I need Audley to find him_.

He inked his pen and began.

_Dearest Georgie,_

_I have still not located George and the school will not allow me to open his apartments to find further clues. Today I resorted to speaking with Inspector Audley, who agreed to aid me in my quest. He suspects George's money may have something to do with it; tomorrow morning we will check with the bank's recordings and then proceed to the University._

_Please assure Isabel that her brother is most likely alive (phrase it differently). There is no one I would rather have by my side than you at this very moment, but you must be of great help to Isabel and Mr. Franklin, and I have yet to get myself involved in any pugilism or duels. I miss you all the same._

_All my love to Alison._

_Thinking of you,_

_Geoffrey Darcy_

He could have gone on, but he didn't want to make a fool of himself. Yes, brevity was the respectable thing to do. He sealed it and put it in for the post before crawling into bed, hugging the pillow as if it were something else.

********************************************

Robert Audley did not reach his apartment until well into the evening. His assistant was a trainee, and looked to him as some sort of role model as a rogue inspector, but he wasn't particularly brilliant at the job and Audley often finished the work off himself. It would take days – weeks, even – to go through all the court records to find an insanity ruling, so he went straight to all the Parisian-based asylums. The ones they'd checked so far did not list a George Wickham as a patient, or anyone with those initials as a new enough patient to qualify a further investigation. He was still going over the names of the other infirmaries in his head as he entered his apartment, the second floor of the building – far enough away from the street to not have the foul stench from the sewers immediately assault him when he opened a window.

Inside, the little apartment smelled quite nice. It only had two rooms, so it filled up easily with warmth and the scent of garlic and wine. "What is it?"

"A surprise," Cécile said, working off their tiny stove. "I bought the garlic from a gypsy, so eating it may turn you into a toad."

He kissed her neck. "That would be an improvement, wouldn't it?" He didn't stay for her response, entering the bedroom to put his notebook on the desk and make last-minute notes of names he needed to remember. "I don't hear you objecting!"

"I have better things to do than stroke your ego, _Inspector_ Audley," she said. "The department does enough of that. And you have your own cronies now."

"Only one."

"Ah, so you were good enough not to count me."

He grinned and removed his hat and jacket, then his vest. Despite the pleasant atmosphere, he found his mind wandering – not so much away from Cécile, but back to the same facts he had been mulling over for hours. Even the spicy stew could not distract him.

She grinned and kicked him with her foot. "And when does the famous Inspector Audley expect to leave work?"

He smiled. "Tsk tsk. Now you know why so many policemen are unmarried."

"Because they cannot afford children?"

"No."

"Because they are often found haunting dangerous places with dangerous women?"

"I do that for pleasure," he said, "not so much for work. Less so than I would like."

"Robert!"

He put down the soup bowl. "Come. When have you seen me with another woman?"

"Oh, yes, it was all related to your job. Did you do a thorough inspection?"

"Now you're just being cruel."

"And I am only your seductress. Imagine how I would be as your wife."

They laughed, and dumped the dishes for an early retirement. She was only half-joking. He could not, in all good conscience, propose on his current salary, and she was willing to wait. Nothing about their current ambiguous situation was unsuitable to her. It was much better than her previous occupation. Cécile was too beautiful to be a flower shop girl, too pure of heart to be a whore – and that was what he liked about her.

They lay in bed together as the dark hours of night came in, and all but one candle was snuffed. "You are distracted," she said, stroking his chin.

"A little, I confess."

"Did a beautiful woman walk into your office today?"

"Her husband did."

"Are you in trouble?"

"Not in that sort of way, though I won't give him my back." His hand drifted to his necklace charm, a silver bullet in dire need of polishing. "It was this woman."

"The mysterious English flower you plucked?"

He blushed a little, despite himself. "It was no small thing, at the time. But her heart always belonged to another, and that man is now her husband."

"Is she happy?"

"Hard to tell. He hasn't given me much of a chance to ask about her. He knows very well who I am."

"Then his purpose is..."

"He is looking for a missing relative and she knew damn well I would help him if he said she sent him to me." He sighed and laid his head on her arm. "The cousin's mad, apparently."

"That doesn't help."

"Hardly, but I've heard of far more desperate cases. We'll probably find him, alive but unwell. And then the husband will go back to his loving wife and child and all will be well, if he doesn't try and deck me first. I won't stand for that."

"You have your honor, Robert."

"What little there is left of it, yes."

She pulled him in tighter, safe against the evening chill.

********************************************

Georgiana Darcy (nee Bingley) turned over once more with a groan. Her bed, though properly covered (and during an early summer heat), was cold in its loneliness, but every time she succeeded in falling asleep, the stirring in her belly woke her up.

"Mama!"

Disoriented by sleep, she looked around in confusion, but it was only Alison, standing by Geoffrey's side of the bed. "Alison... what is it?"

"I can't sleep."

"Did we talk about not barging into Mama and Papa's bedroom, but knocking first?"

"If I knocked then I would wake everybody, and _you_ said Cousin Franklin needs her sleep."

"Of course I did," she grumbled, but allowed her daughter to climb in next to her. "What is it? Do you miss your father?"

"Why did he have to go?"

"Fathers can't be with you all the time. Sometimes they have to take trips."

"But he said he would always be there for me."

"He meant it metaphorically."

Alison, not understanding, frowned. "Who is going to have a baby first? You or Cousin Franklin?"

"Your cousin, I would hope."

"How do you know?"

"It takes a certain amount of time, and she got a head start."

"How?"

Her response was, "When you're older."

"Do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl?"

"No."

"When do you get to decide?"

"You don't. It's just... chance."

"Why?"

"I don't know, darling," she said. "Maybe G-d just likes to surprise us."

"If it's a girl will it be prettier than me?"

"No. And it won't play the shamisen as well, either. _That_ I can guarantee." Mainly because she had no intention of letting another daughter play the damned instrument.

"Will you love the new baby more than you love me?"

"Alison! What kind of question is that?" She sat up against the headboard, cradling her daughter's head in her arms. "I'm a mother. I am here to love all my children, until I no longer draw breath."

Her daughter looked up. "What?"

It was a strange thing to say. "I don't know." She kissed her on the head. "The point is that I will love all of my children – present and future – the same. And that I've been reading too many of my father's Indian books." She grinned, stroking Alison's hair. "I love you. I will always love you, my baby girl. That, I can promise you."

"Will you leave me?"

"Sometimes, we will have to be separated by distance, but I will never leave you. Just like your father. I'm sure he's in Paris, dreaming of us right now." She added, "And if he knew we were so concerned about him, he'd hardly get any sleep. So we should sleep, and let your father rest."

Alison seemed to accept that for an answer, however little sense it made. She remained by her mother's side, the only thing between them being the new life in Georgiana's growing belly.

... Next Chapter - The Bradley Connection


	15. The Bradley Connection

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 15 – The Bradley Connection

Geoffrey was up early, and on time for their meeting in front of the bank. "Inspector Audley."

"Mr. Darcy. Do you have the paperwork?"

"Everything that isn't either on his person or in his apartments. I don't have access to his account."

"You don't need it. We're not taking money out, and the bank knows me. Your cousin is not the first relative to be stolen from."

Audley led the way. They passed the lines of the massive bank and proceeded to a private office. He knocked on the door. "Inspector Audley of the Paris Police," he said in French.

"Come!"

They entered the tiny office of the well-dressed banker, who gestured for them to sit down across from him as he retrieved a file. "My apologies, Inspector Audley, but do you have a warrant?"

"I do." He presented it to the banker, who peered at it through his tiny glasses.

"This will give you access to our records on the foreign account of Monsieur Wickham, which he accesses at this branch, but will not allow you to look at his current balance, or withdraw funds." He had a tense little smile. "We do take fraud very seriously here, Inspector."

Audley gestured to Geoffrey. "This is Monsieur Darcy, Monsieur Wickham's cousin. Is his name on the account?"

"Monsieur Fitzwilliam Darcy?"

"No, that is my father," Geoffrey said in French. "His name is on the account?"

"He is not a joint holder, but he has some limited access. Monsieur Wickham is the primary holder and the man who opened the account." He opened the file, which was filled with slips of paper. "Here in Paris, the nature of the account is that the maximum withdrawal per month by either Monsieur Fitzwilliam Darcy or Monsieur Wickham's solicitor is five hundred pounds a month, converted into francs based on the daily market of course. Only Monsieur Wickham can withdraw more, and only in person."

"When was the last time he made a withdrawal?" Audley asked.

The banker looked down at his file, and began sifting through the slips of paper. "He made one early this week. Monday."

"It was him?" Geoffrey said in shock.

"It might have been him or his solicitor; the teller would not necessarily remember. His signature is on the withdrawal slip." He plucked it and neatly set it down on the edge of his desk so they could see it. George Wickham's signature was there, and the date written with the teller's signature. Geoffrey looked at the amount in francs. "How much is that?"

"Approximately five hundred pounds, sir."

"I need to see the withdrawal slip of the date prior to this one," Audley said, taking out an eyeglass.

"Of course, Inspector." The banker set it right above it, so they could compare. It was for roughly the same amount, though the last digit was different, because of the exchange rate. "Precisely one month ago from the previous withdrawal. In other words, as soon as the solicitor was able to withdraw again, and for the maximum amount, both times."

"Did the bank flag this?" Audley said, using the glass over his eye to look at both signatures. "A man pulling out all of his money?"

"If the solicitor tried to exceed the limit, it would be noticed. As you can see, though, nothing illegal has been done here to our knowledge. I have twenty years of experience at this establishment, and the signatures appear to me to be the same. If you wish, there is an expert on staff to affirm that the same man signed both notes. It will take a day."

"I would appreciate it, though I suspect you are correct," Audley said, his face so close that it was almost touching the paper as he compared the signatures. "What was the prior withdrawal?"

"February, some ten pounds worth." He produced that slip, and Audley carefully lined up the signatures. The second two were less legible, the hand shakier, but even Geoffrey knew that didn't mean it wasn't the same man.

Audley removed his eyeglass and sat up. He pointed to the number in the corner. "What does this number mean?"

"When Monsieur Wickham came to this branch to set up the access to his account in London, we issued him a book of withdrawal slips. They are numbered merely for filing reasons."

Audley tapped his finger on the two most recent slips. "These are not sequential. Twenty-two and twenty-six. The one from February is twenty-one."

"That is not entirely unusual. He is not required to use them sequentially. We also know that some men are careless, or make mistakes, or wish to change a number after they've written it, and we don't allow things to be crossed out. Some slips are discarded." The banker leaned forward. "I cannot say there is proof before us that anything illegal has happened here. His signature is not forged. However, this is a deviation from the norm when it comes to the records of Monsieur Wickham."

"Do you have his solicitor's address?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I didn't know Wickham had a solicitor," Geoffrey said.

"Hence why his signature is required." The banker re-checked his notes. "There is one other thing."

They both looked up from the slips.

"Beyond the withdrawal limit, there is one other payment, stipulated to occur every month automatically. It is a deposit of twenty pounds to a Mr. Bradley in London, address – "

" – Gracechurch Street?"

The banker looked at Geoffrey. "Yes."

"How long has this been going on?"

More page-flipping was required. "This will be the seventh month."

"So he's sent Mr. Bradley 140 pounds."

"Yes. He set this up in person. He would be required to do so."

Inspector Audley nodded. "Please have all three slips sent to your expert for an examination and I will come back for the results in the morning or send a messenger. Thank you for your time."

The banker nodded and showed them out. He was very professional. "The last thing he wants is proof of fraud," Audley said. "The good news is as of Monday, George Wickham was probably alive, and will probably remain so as long as there's money in his account. The bad news being, of course, that he's being held against his will. That is my suspicion at this time, Mr. Darcy."

"Why would he sign?"

"I don't think he wanted to. Hence the three missing slips. But people have a way of making things happen," he said. "You said Mr. Wickham lives below his means? Does he give the appearance of a man of his financial stature?"

"He does not, until you see his library, but most of that is in England."

"Then that narrows the suspects, as someone had to know he had this kind of money to even want to pull off something so dangerous."

Geoffrey smiled at Audley's encouragement. The idea that George was dead was too frightening to be brought to the front of his mind; it remained a tiny voice of worry in the back of his head.

********************************************

Their next stop was the medical academy of the University of France, where a much sterner Audley presented his warrant to the Rector, who called for the head of the apartments to escort them to George Wickham's last known lodgings with the master set of keys. Fortunately for them George lived on campus, and the keys were available. The man opened the door for them, and a gust of air flew into the stale room, filling the air with disturbed dust.

George Wickham's apartments were small, and made smaller by piles of books, like everywhere else he lived. At first glance, there was nothing amiss, aside from the rotting food on the counter of the kitchen. They made a brief tour. The bed was made; nothing was askew. Even the two chairs to the kitchen table were neatly tucked in. George's gown hung from the coat rack, his wig and mortarboard from the other rungs.

Geoffrey opened a window and wiped the dust off a picture of Isabel as Audley went right for the desk in the bedroom. It was worn and stained with ink, like any student's desk. There were notebooks upon notebooks, and loose papers neatly stacked in the drawer.

They split the pile and began to go through them. Most were notes related to his studies and papers in draft or submitted form, so they were easily discarded. If George had a diary, he did not leave it in an obvious place. It was Geoffrey who found the date book under the candlestick on the dresser. They took it to the kitchen and eagerly flipped through it, but it held little of interest. It was, for the most part, a book of appointments, nearly all school-related. He meet with Pierre Bontecou twice a week, marked with a "P.B." He had the dates and times of lectures, and his hours at the clinic. It was a neat, comprehensive, but dry schedule. There was only one revealing detail: "M.V." was, on a few occasions, marked as Valérie.

"His mistress," Geoffrey said. "I don't know who else it would be."

Audley made a careful list of the dates against the calendar. There were few in December, as George was in England for much of it. In January and February, he saw her two or three times a week, occasionally four and never on Sundays. After that, the visits became more sporadic. The last one was dated six weeks prior.

"How hard would it be to find her?"

"A whore in Paris?" Audley almost laughed. "All we have is her first name. We'll need more if we want to find her quickly."

"She would be classy. He pays her a lot."

"A better establishment, then."

"Yes."

Audley frowned. "It could take a very long time. It depends how famous this woman is."

"He wouldn't see anyone famous. When I went to Cambridge, he told me never to do that. The famous ones all have diseases by the time they're famous."

"Your cousin is a bit confounding in his quest for good health," Audley said. "He must have a book of his financial records."

The search resumed. In the desk were letters from relatives, mostly his sister and his Aunt and Uncle Darcy. There were several from his mother, all requesting money.

"You said his mother has no access to his accounts?"

"No. And she would never – " He shook his head. "She couldn't have anything to do with this."

Audley said nothing.

"I mean it. This is my Aunt Bradley – my mother's sister. If anything, it's beyond the scope of her abilities, to be crude about it."

"Mr. Wickham is sending money to his stepfather."

"I know, but it's not 500 pounds." He added, "Mr. Bradley's a good man. George gets along with him. I can't even imagine – "

Audley raised his hand. "You need not. Just tell me all the details you can think of."

Geoffrey took a moment to compose himself. "Mr. Bradley married Aunt Bradley, then Mrs. Wickham, about seven years after Uncle Wickham's death. George was a boy of ten at the time, and Isabel was eight. Mr. Bradley is a retired colonel, living off army pay. He fought the Americans in 1812, but was wounded in the eye and dismissed, freeing him from the Continental War. He's very polite, kind... not particularly bright, but he was always good to George. We all knew that. He has six children with Aunt Bradley."

"Does he know about George's disappearance?"

"I don't know. I don't know if Isabel told her mother. She didn't mention it," he said. "I'll write and ask – subtly."

"Of course." Audley said no more on the matter, and they continued. At last, they found something under a jar of some kind of medicinal powder – an envelope, made out to Pierre Bontecou, with no letter in it. Beneath it, another. There was a little stack of them beside all of the jars and bottles. "Mr. Wickham has been mailing something to his Tutor."

"Why?"

"I don't know. There's no return on the envelope – he could have been doing it anonymously." More importantly, they now had an address.

They took one more look at his date book. There were other dates beyond his final meeting with Pierre – lectures, mostly, and only for the next two weeks. There were no appointments with MV. In a last bout of frustration, Geoffrey flipped back all the way through the year, until his eye spotted something. George's way of noting his appointments was so neat and static that any variation could instantly be picked up by the eye.

_MV – New Address. Remember: _

Below that, hastily scribbled in, was an address.

They now had not one lead, but two.

********************************************

Inspector Audley asked Geoffrey if he wanted to stop for lunch, but Geoffrey declined. He was too wound up, and it was doing nothing for his stomach. They could be very close; how could he sit around, drinking wine, while George was locked up somewhere?

On Geoffrey's insistence, they took a carriage to the address of Pierre Bontecou. It was not terribly far from campus, in a rundown part of the town, but nothing terrible. There were men wearing gowns around, and it was not hard to get directions.

The apartment building was not looking structurally sound, but they entered anyway, and inquired with the landlord after Pierre Bontecou.

"I haven't seen him in weeks," he said, which was like a blow to Geoffrey's chest. "He's paid out for the month, though."

"My name is Inspector Audley, and I would like to search his apartment. I have a warrant." The warrant paper he flashed was the same for the banker's, but the man in front of him didn't seem to know the difference, and Audley didn't give him much of a chance to find out.

"I'll get the keys."

He led them upstairs, up three dank flights to an unadorned room but for a faded number written on the door. Audley knocked, but there was no answer. "Mr. Bontecou?" He removed his pistol and put his ear to the door. "Mr. Bontecou, this is Inspector Audley of the police department. Please open your door."

Finally he nodded to the very nervous old landlord, who managed to stop shaking enough to open the door. It swung open to an empty room. The furniture was still there – a bed, a desk, a stove – but everything else was gone but for a few stray papers, none of which had anything on them. Audley cursed quietly in French as Geoffrey looked at the spot on the wall where the paint wasn't as faded and a nail hung in the middle. The picture there was gone. "He doesn't look like he's coming back."

"No," Audley said, lowering his pistol. "You say he's paid out to the end of the month?"

"Yes, Monsieur Inspector."

"Tell me about Mr. Bontecou."

"He's a Tutor... for the academy. He was supposed to be a doctor, but he gave up."

"Do you know why?"

"He has the disease. You know." The landlord made a vague gesture.

"Consumption?"

"No, no. The one that makes you mad."

"Syphilis?" Audley asked.

"Forgive me, I didn't want to say it. I only know because another tenant, no longer here, told me. He was supposed to be a brilliant man."

Audley opened the desk drawer, and found it empty. "So I hear. Did he have guests?"

"_Oui_, Monsieur. His students, but I've only seen one around. He usually goes to their dorms. I don't know his name. We never talked."

Geoffrey took the portraiture of George out of his pocket. "Was it this man? An Englishman with good French?"

"_Oui_, that looks like him."

"What about anyone else?" Audley asked. "Relatives? Friends? Women?"

"No friends. I don't think he would bring them here, if he has any, no? He did have a woman, though."

"A mistress?"

"Maybe. He told me once, she was a nurse." He chuckled. "I didn't believe him. Maybe she was."

"Did he say her name?"

"_Non_."

"Is the name Madame Valérie familiar to you?" Geoffrey said.

"Non, Monsieur. I'm sorry."

"The woman that he did have – did she live with him?"

"No. She was here very irregularly."

"What did she look like?"

"Hair – black. Big hat covering her face like a veil."

"How was she dressed?"

He shrugged. "About as well as anyone else in this neighborhood."

"But not like a whore, or a nurse?"

The landlord chuckled. "No, neither of those. Just an ordinary woman."

"And you don't know her name. I don't suppose he left you any kind of address to forward his mail?"

"_Non_. I knew he was gone because he wasn't here, but I didn't know he wasn't coming back! He must have taken his things piece by piece, or I would have heard. And he didn't take the furniture. Maybe he didn't have much."

At the moment, neither did they.

... Next Chapter - Madame Valérie


	16. Madame Valérie

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 16 - Madame Valérie

After the failed attempt to find Pierre, Audley insisted that they stop and eat. "It's best to sort out things in your head before the next challenge, and if we find this mistress, it may very well be a challenge."

Geoffrey did not object. His stomach was groaning. He did not object to tavern food, far below his usual meal, but far above the gooey rice balls he feasted on in Japan. Audley spent the time before the food came scribbling notes in his book. Only when the food arrived did he put it away and was more talkative. "Last night, I visited several homes for the insane, but failed to find a Mr. Wickham of any sort. There are still more to check, and he may be somewhere else entirely."

"If his mistress does not know anything, what is the next step?"

"I assume she will know something, however small, but assuming she does not provide his whereabouts or Pierre's new address, or is involved herself, then I do not know." He corrected himself, "As of yet. We are assuming Mr. Bontecou is alive and involved, of course."

"I suppose we are."

"We should make no assumptions, but abandon no notions. There are still more classmates to interview, and former students of Mr. Bontecou. The academy may have records."

"If George is alive but imprisoned, could he not be simply jailed under a false pretense?"

Audley shook his head. "It would be too difficult to get his signatures if he were, unless there was a way I am not imagining. Bribery will get you anywhere, so it is a possibility, but if I was intent on stealing Mr. Wickham's fortune, that would not be how I would go about doing it."

"Now I must be morbid and ask how you would."

"There is nothing morbid about it. Assuming you have a similar or higher level of intelligence than the perpetrator, your own plan might not be different from theirs – and it is often the most logical one." He took another bite of his steak and finished chewing it before he continued, "Given Mr. Wickham's mental history, I do not think it would be hard to have him institutionalized. The stay can be expensive depending on the asylum, but remember that the person behind this is stealing 500 pounds a month, and confinement is run by nuns and costs a mere fraction of that. It would have to be somewhere where he was forbidden to write, of course. And if at all possible, they would put him under another name than his own."

"He would simply say otherwise."

"But you remember, he is insane. Why should he be trusted? If a suitable back-story is created for his new identity by a person not established to be lacking certain mental faculties, those nuns might well believe it. He has to be held for a long time – his jailor wouldn't be sure how long, precisely, but surely at least several months, with the limit on withdrawals."

"His family would discover this."

"Sooner or later, yes. By then, Mr. Wickham might be dead, or utterly insane for real, and they will have his money – a fortune to someone like a Tutor, assuming it is Mr. Bontecou. It is not hard to disappear."

Geoffrey nodded grimly. "This is true."

********************************************

Mr. Franklin emerged from the study after reviewing the day's mail. "Nothing from Mr. Darcy."

"Surely we will hear something soon," Georgie said. Alison and Isabel were in the audience. "He must be in Paris by now."

"I'm sure," Mr. Franklin said, and gave his wife a cautious smile.

The confinement was not doing Isabel any good. Not only was she having problems sleeping because of her pregnancy, but she was not surrounded by the comfort of aunts and other ladies, only Georgiana and the mid-wife. This she insisted on day after day; she did not want anyone else to have to worry for George and now for Geoffrey. Mrs. Bradley made visits, but simply accepted that 'George was not home yet.'

"There is a letter from the other Mr. Darcy," Saul said with a little cough, "explaining that he expects to be in Town by the end of the week, so Mrs. Darcy can be here. Do you think he will believe us?"

"Not in a heartbeat," Georgie said. "Geoffrey would not leave me in this state unless he had to."

"Good heavens, what will we tell them?" Isabel said.

"The truth, I suppose," her husband answered. "George is delayed and Geoffrey had gone to find out why. For all we know, he is simply ill, and hasn't written because he doesn't want to worry us, and it will not take Geoffrey long to discover this."

"Uncle Darcy will think the worst," Isabel said. "Georgie, you know he will. He'll go running off to France – "

"We may have news by the end of the week."

" – and leave us all worrying for _him_."

"There is little danger in traveling to France," Saul assured her. "It may all be sorted out by the time they arrive. We shall have to see."

********************************************

"Are you sure this is the place?"

Audley looked down at his notes, and up at the non-descript building. "It is the correct address."

"It doesn't look like a whorehouse."

"It may be her residence." They stood across the street, and he glanced at the man exiting, looking untidy. "Though I doubt it."

"Are we allowed to do this? Just barge in?"

"We are not barging in. We are going to question an acquaintance of your cousin." Audley looked back at Geoffrey. "Is something the matter?"

"I've just... never been to see a whore." He did not like Audley's dumbfounded look. "What?"

"Be serious."

"I am being serious."

"You need not lie to an inspector. You ought not lie to an inspector."

"I have never been to a see a whore. Prostitute. Courtesan. What have you." He added, "I swear it. The only time... I suppose the only time I was ever near one was when I was a constable in Japan."

"Why were you a constable in Japan?"

"To break up fights in whorehouses. Though, they called them geisha. The whores."

"Geisha."

"Yes. And they dressed much better. It was all about appearance. Silk and make-up and all that."

Audley broke into laughter.

"It's not funny."

"You are how old?"

"It does not matter! I am married."

"Since when did that have anything to do with it?"

Geoffrey's only response was a cold stare.

"Forgive me. My years of experience with angry wives, cheating husbands, and thieving prostitutes – many of them English – has perhaps made me a jaded man. You may be the last soldier for the institution of marriage."

"Maybe I'm just married to the right woman."

The whole of Audley's response was, "Touché."

As they proceeded to the apartment complex, Geoffrey did not revel in his victory. He was still a bit shamefaced about the conversation, and as they approached, even felt a bit sorry for wishing Audley pain, however unintentional or deserved. _Oh G-d, I'm starting to like him_.

"We are here to see a Madame Valérie," Audley said to the woman who answered the door, flashing his credentials, "in reference to a missing person."

"Of course, Inspector. Come in."

They were not made to wait in the lobby very long before being invited up to the fourth story, where the matron pointed to one of the closed doors. Audley knocked. "Madame?"

"Come in, Inspector."

To Geoffrey's relief, the place was not a din of sin, or did not appear to be. It was a very tasteful sitting room, with furniture far nicer than the previous neighborhood. A woman with her hair elegantly pinned up and wearing a very respectable but beautiful gown rose from the settee. Behind her, the window gave a view of the Seine and the best of the Parisian skyline. "You are here about George Wickham?"

"My name is Inspector Audley," he said. As always, he was completely professional. "And the first thing I will ask is you how you came to that conclusion."

"I've not seen him in a month, much longer than he's ever gone while still in Paris, yet he said clearly he did not expect to leave so soon. Therefore, he is missing." She did not have a visible servant, so she poured brandy from a decanter and handed them each a glass. They took their seats in the chairs across from her as she returned to her station. "He missed his last appointment. It's unlike him."

"I must inquire into the precise nature of your relationship with Monsieur Wickham," Audley said, opening his notebook and taking a drink at the same time. Geoffrey tasted it. It was not the best, but very good.

"I'm not his mistress, if you wish to be technical about it. I met George – " and the name rolled off her tongue in that very Parisian accent like silk – "three years ago, it must have been. Apparently I was recommended. That is how I receive most of my clients. When we first met he was very polite, but very professional. He was concerned with his own health more than most men are, and therefore my health. We set a payment, and it has never been altered. He tipped around the holidays or before leaving for England – another sign he is not departed in the usual manner that he does."

"Does he speak to you in French or English?"

"Both."

"Tell us about the last time you saw him."

"It was – maybe five, six weeks ago. No, I remember, seven, because I went to a show afterwards, and it was closing, so I remember the date. We scheduled for Monday and he didn't show."

"Did you do anything about it?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "What was I to do?"

"Was there anything abnormal about his behavior? Did he speak of any plans?"

"He did tell me he was going away soon, and was not sure of the precise date of his return, but it would not be the next week. I understand his sister is with child."

"She is," Geoffrey said, and finished the rest of his brandy. She poured another as soon as he set it down.

"He cares very much for his sister. He spoke of her a lot. But as for his behavior, yes, there was a difference, but not just on that day."

"How so?"

She paused. "If this is a formal investigation, I would like to know why an assistant is needed."

Audley raised his eyebrows. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"George... is a very private man."

"I'm his cousin," Geoffrey announced. "I've been sent to find him. Mr. Darcy."

"Then I suppose it is alright, Monsieur Darcy." She took a sip, but not a lot, and set it down. "Over the last few... weeks, George was particularly stressed about his studies. He admitted as much to me, and he rarely admits anything to me unless he's had something to drink or he's very tired."

"What was stressing him? Did he say?"

"I did not inquire. He is a medical student. He does not find his studies to be good conversation. He said so himself, very early on. But he started coming to me in obvious distress."

"Please elaborate," Audley said tonelessly.

"You must understand, George never missed a single appointment until recently, and almost never cancelled. He was always on time and even if his mood was foul he was always polite. He treated me like a lady – in most respects. He began showing up unshaven, or admitted he had not slept in a long time. He said he was ready to pass out but he didn't want to cancel the appointment. He didn't think it was right."

"He had a sense of duty, almost?"

"I would say... he valued our time together. George's heart is guarded. I suspect I will never really know how he felt about me, but again, never an unkind word. Nor did he lavish me with praise, but it was not his style. You can tell that by looking at him. He praises you with action, not words."

"Did he often have trouble sleeping?"

"He had periods where it could become very extreme, but they were rare. I can think only of a few. Yes, he did have insomnia, but it came and went. But not to shave – it was very unlike him. He was always neat and always clean. I remember, also, the last time I saw him, thinking maybe he had lost weight."

"Maybe?"

She shrugged. "It's gradual. I don't think I noticed it at first."

"Did you share your observations with him?"

"I knew he would treat it as an accusation of something, so I said nothing."

Audley looked up. "Please elaborate, Madame Valérie."

"He does not like comments on his looks or behavior. Anything that was not open praise he would interpret as criticism, and elaborate praise he found false. He would never shout, but he would be silent. He just seemed to want to be... I don't know, left alone." She rose and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her, pacing the sitting room. "When he was silent it meant he was absorbed in his thoughts or he wanted to be mean but was too much a gentleman to do it. I could see it on his face. When we first met, I thought he was tormented by some horrible past. He was so haunted by inner demons."

"How did you reach this conclusion?"

"It is only a theory, Inspector. George could become very quiet because he did not want me to know things about himself, but when he was drunk – well, it is a different story. He so rarely drank, but if I had a bottle of claret around, a very fine one, he might go for it. He could never even finish the bottle."

"What did he say when he was drunk?"

"Like any tormented man, he has issues with his mother. His father died when he was young but George would defend him endlessly, to the point of ridiculousness, because apparently his father was a horrible rake who scandalized the family but he doesn't want to remember him that way. And money. He was so obsessed with money."

"How so?"

"He has quite a lot of it – I do not have many students as clients, and not so frequently – and his mother is always trying to get it from him. Sometimes it came out as nonsense, but that is the essential thing that seemed to bother him. The monsieur here probably knows more than I do about his money."

"The point is what you know, Madame," Audley said before Geoffrey had to force himself to come up with an answer.

"Of course." She took another sip, and kept walking, holding the glass so elegantly, like any fashionable lady of the Ton. "George had very poor esteem of himself. He was a kind man, a fantastic lover, and seems to have been a brilliant student, and yet when he was drunk he would say that he was a worthless madman and as soon as the University found out, they would send him to that place – something to do with a bed."

"Bedlam?" Geoffrey said.

"Yes, that. Some kind of institution?"

"It is."

"Everyone had a conspiracy against him. His mother, his Rector, his banker, his Tutor – "

"What do you know of his Tutor?"

"His name is Pierre or something. Dying of the pox. George felt bad for him – genuinely. Beyond that, I don't recall anything."

"But you said his Tutor had a conspiracy against him."

"_Everyone_ did, when he was drunk, and in a foul mood. He said horrible things." She paused. "I am sure he did not mean to say them. He apologized later, when he sobered. He was so embarrassed."

Audley softened his tone. "I must insist."

"He said they wanted not just his money, but to hurt him, to – " She broke off, and covered her mouth. She took another sip before speaking again. "He said they wanted to cut him with knives. All of these awful things about knives and blood and all of these tricks they had to trap him." She turned towards the window, away from them. "It was upsetting to me to hear him talk like this. There, now you have something truly for the books, Inspector."

"My only goal is to find him."

"These were fantasies. They had to have been. Fortunately I only heard them a few times in three years, and after, he would go on and on about how sorry he was, and how he had no head for alcohol, and he would really praise me – more than usual, to compensate. He never cried, but he looked like he was going to. The first time I thought it was perhaps his last visit, but he stopped by two days later and made another appointment. Again he begged my forgiveness and I said I drank and recalled little of it myself."

"But you did."

"He was too nervous to tell, I think. I would not be very good if I could not read a man's face, Inspector." She turned back to him and Geoffrey. "We had a bottle of wine three months ago, to celebrate some major paper he submitted, and that was when I heard the full of it, all over again. Fortunately he was so drunk he did not remember it in the morning. After that, he didn't drink at all, but he was very nervous."

"Not too nervous to visit you."

"To a point, it seems. That or something terrible has happened. I thought maybe he went home early, but that didn't make sense. He never left without telling me. But what could I do? How would it look for me to visit his academy and start asking questions? Men are supposed to come and go without explanation. But he always explained."

Audley nodded politely. Either she was a fine actress or she was a bit emotional. Geoffrey supposed it could easily be either one. "I'm going to recite a few names and if you don't mind, you can tell me what they mean to you."

"Of course."

"Pierre Bontecou."

"His Tutor. Him I do not know beyond what I've told you."

"Pierre had a lover. Did George ever mention it?"

"No. It is not something he would mention."

Audley made a note. "Isabel."

"His sister, no? _Isabella_. She is married to an American."

"What does George think of her husband?"

"He was nervous at first, but he has only said good things. Very few things, but all good."

"Monsieur Bradley."

"It sounds familiar, but I cannot properly recall."

"Mrs. Bradley."

"His mother! Yes, she remarried. His stepfather. He said he was a respectable man who cared for his mother and him as a child. Beyond that, he did not mention him. He did not speak of his family extensively."

"Mr. Darcy, or Uncle Darcy."

"His generous uncle. That is the word he used. Generous."

"Geoffrey Darcy."

She turned to Geoffrey. "That is you, no? George liked you. He said you were crazy to marry your cousin. Her name is – "

"Georgiana," the men said in unison, and then stared briefly at each other before redoubling their attention on Valérie.

"Yes. Obsessed with the Orient or something like that. He seemed amused when she came up in passing, but that is the only way she came up. She is abroad, is she not? No, you would not be here."

"We've just returned," he said.

"And your daughter. Alison? He is godfather to your next child, he said. He is looking forward to it."

Geoffrey nodded. "Thank you."

Audley closed his book. "Do you have any intentions of leaving Paris in the near future?"

"No. I will be here, if you think of anything." They rose together. "I would like to help you. George is a good man."

"But what definition do you use, Madame?"

She smiled. "Even with the facts plain in his face, he never treated me like a whore."

********************************************

While Geoffrey was merely relieved to have the interview over with, Audley seemed discouraged. "A dead end."

"You're sure of it?"

"She knows about George's money, yes. She is a woman of loose virtues, yes. But is she capable of kidnapping him in a massive plot to seize his assets? I do not think so, unless she is the best actress I have ever encountered." He added, "Your cousin seems like a good man."

"Thank you."

They made it only halfway back to the police station before Audley's assistant found them, and passed him a note from the bank. He opened it and read it quickly. "The handwriting matches. While it does not provide us with a lead, take some comfort in the fact that Mr. Wickham is alive."

... Next Chapter - Darcy-Keibu


	17. DarcyKeibu

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 17 – Darcy-Keibu

"It's the woman."

Robert Audley looked up from him notebook and grinned. "You always say that. You must think so highly of your sex."

Cécile sighed and sat down across from him, taking a sip from his wine glass. "I do. Therefore, that is my conclusion."

Audley laughed. "I don't think the mistress is behind it. She has little motive. She seems to be doing quite well for herself."

"Not her. The woman seen in the Tutor's apartment."

He flipped the page over. "We have nothing on her. Not even a name. Besides, it could have been a visitor."

"If you thought it was a lead, you would think harder on it. I know you."

"Considering my lack of them, I'll hear you out."

Cécile drained his glass and passed it back to him. "You told me to think like the criminal."

"Yes."

"It can't be the Tutor. He has nothing to gain from robbing - what's the poor man's name?"

"Wickham."

"Wickham. If he does have the pox, the treatment is not so expensive, unless you're truly impoverished. Besides, it only treats, not cures. He knows the end is coming and unless he had a grudge against his student, who has been paying him faithfully for years while others have probably shunned him, he has no motive."

He scratched his chin. "Correct. Or so we think."

"Now how would I get a lot of money, quickly?"

"Robbery."

She rolled her eyes. "I would marry a rich, dying man. It would take some work to find one, and then more work to win his heart, but if I was truly cruel, it would not be impossible."

"Thank G-d you are not truly cruel then," he said, "because I am not a rich man."

"Now the Tutor is dying, but not rich. However, he _knows_ a rich man who happens to trust very few people, one of them being apparently the Tutor. From there, it would not be hard to develop a scheme."

"But you forget – first she must win the dying man's heart. Though I suppose that's not all that hard to do, if he's alone."

"I would assume she is not a whore. She wouldn't put her own health at risk if his symptoms were obvious – especially because she wants to live to see that money herself. The only other person besides a relative to visit a sick outcast like a failed, syphilitic student would be... a nurse?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps."

"Or someone claiming to be a nurse. She's a thief, after all – she has to be reasonably smart to pull this off."

"So the Tutor is only a means to the rich man's money."

"Of course. But it's going to take time to drain him dry – even a solicitor couldn't pull out all of his money at once if he has a foreign account. And she needs his signatures. Simply tricking him isn't going to be enough, if he turns up at the bank. She'll have to house him somewhere where his means of escape are limited." She picked at the remains of the chicken on her plate. "Fortunately, he's mad."

"Somewhat, yes."

"What does it take to get a man committed?"

"An insanity hearing. You need a judge, and if you are not the family, then it's harder to make your case – unless he is truly insane."

"Or simply insane for the purposes of the hearing. Medical students – like the Tutor – know all about potions, do they not?"

Audley refilled his glass. "They certainly might. But so far his name has not turned up anywhere."

"What makes you think they would put him in under his real name?"

"Of course! How else would his family be unable to find him?" Audley said. "They could get false papers. The judge wouldn't look too hard at them. And if our female accomplice – or mastermind – actually _is_ a nurse, she would have some sway in the trial." He frowned. "I think I can narrow it down to the week before the first withdrawal by the so-called solicitor, or the week before that, but there are simply too many records in too many courtrooms. It would take time. But..."

"But?"

"He's a student. Wickham. Medical cases are heard in front of students, even insanity trials. Even if they're just law students, they might recognize him. It would have to be a judge whose office is closed to the student population of Paris." He hit the table. "And families pay for private hearings – but they would have to submit their name. It wouldn't be the nurse, but the Tutor, of course, unless there's another person involved."

"So if a Mr. Bontecou has paid for a private insanity hearing – "

"That would narrow it enough that perhaps the records could be found in a reasonable amount of time. No, not records – the judges."

"Do you think the judges will grant you an audience?"

"Ah, see, here is where the importance of having a rich relative is key. Unfortunately for us, that relative is not one of mine."

********************************************

They had no prearranged meeting set for the next day, which was fortunate, because Geoffrey drew his drapes to pouring rain. He ordered breakfast, and spent the morning anxiously going over his own notes, writing far too many letters than were required to report on his progress and then tossing them in embarrassment, and eventually wondering if the whole police force shut down on a rainy day.

He was finishing lunch when the doorman announced the inspector, and he rose in anticipation. "Inspector."

Inspector Audley entered, removed his hat (which was soaked through), and bowed with his very wet head. "Mr. Darcy."

"I assumed I was supposed to wait – "

"I have a list of names," Audley said, opening his satchel and removing the cloth around his notebook to protect it from the rain. "Judges who hear private cases."

"What makes a case public or private?"

"Surely you know, Mr. Darcy, that almost all trials are open to students of the law, and some cases involving malpractice and insanity, to students of medicine. If Pierre Bontecou had Wickham committed, he would need a judge to rule against Mr. Wickham's own free will. But since Wickham was a student and Bontecou is a former student, it would be foolish to have it be a public case.

"In matters that the family wishes to remain private, such as divorce proceedings, cases of infirmary, rape, and insanity would have to go before a judge in private. The cost of doing such a thing is not low, and there are few judges who will do it because it's frowned upon by the university and the state." He showed the notebook to Geoffrey, with the open page. "The judge won't see me, even as an inspector, without cause. It is, however, fair to pay for an audience with a judge between cases."

"Isn't that bribery?"

"Not so long as it doesn't affect the ruling of law." Audley shrugged. "If your cousin went before a judge, it was at most two months ago. He might remember, or be willing to have the records drawn. There could not have been that many people committed in Paris in the past two months."

"Assuming he was."

"Assuming that, yes. This may be a dead end, but I think it is worth investigating."

Geoffrey did not need time to make his decision. "I will not let George rot in a cell, wherever that is. Do you have their addresses?"

********************************************

"He went where?" Charles said. "Without you?"

Georgie rolled her eyes at her brother's stare. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit indisposed."

The days of waiting to hear from France were rarely broken up by anything other than a brief visit from Mrs. Bradley and her children, so it was a relief when Charles and Eliza Bingley returned to Town to open up the Bingley house before their parents arrived. Charles looked well, all things considered, and the renewal of his relationship with his twin sister brought a light back to both of their faces that Georgie hadn't realized had disappeared.

"What will Uncle Darcy think?"

She shrugged. "He'll be unhappy that he wasn't told immediately but of course will say nothing to either of the Franklins. The most censored person would be Geoffrey, but he's in France."

"He may follow him there, if someone doesn't try to stop him."

"If there's no news, he just might," Georgie replied, holding an opened letter in her hands. "I only know Geoffrey is safely established in Paris and has begun his search."

Charles frowned. "I would go."

"You might get your chance," she said, "but hopefully not."

********************************************

Hours later, Geoffrey Darcy was running low on cash, low on energy, and low on hope. He was soaked to the bone despite numerous layers and an umbrella, but he soldiered on through the muck of the poorly-maintained Parisian streets, following Audley from office to office. Not all were open, as some judges were abroad for the summer, or simply not in the office. A few outright refused any intrusion into their deliberations, and they sat through two trials before being granted a brief audience with a judge who ended up not even remembering an insanity case in his lifetime.

They stopped at a café to have some wine, and passed the bottle between them under the awning as the sheets of rain obscured the street and they planned their next move. They were losing daylight, though it was hard to tell without looking at a watch.

"May I ask a question?"

An odd thing for an inspector to say. "Of course."

"Did it rain like this in Japan?"

"For days, and without warning. It would be perfectly clear one moment and you couldn't see out the doorway the next. They were prepared for it, though. They made raincoats out of rush leaves and palm leaf hats."

"Did it work?"

"I'd trade my British dignity for one right now. And the geta sandals, to keep you far above the mud – these wooden shoes on stilts – "

"I remember."

Geoffrey looked at him in confusion, then remembered, and turned away so he didn't glare so harshly at the man he desperately needed to help him find George.

"I apologize. It's distinctive."

"I know."

They finished the bottle, and left it by the door before putting their now-ineffective soaked hats back on and heading out in the rain. Their next stop was across the Seine, and there was not a carriage to be found, rented, or bought that was not in use, so they ran across the bridge, to the courthouse, only to be told the judge was in session.

"You will have to wait, Inspector," the guard told them. There was at least a bench in the hallway, and they both collapsed on it. Geoffrey even caught himself nodding off when they were called into the tiny office, where an impatient-looking judge removed his wig. "Make it quick."

"Your Honor," Audley said as they bowed. "I'm Inspector Audley of the Paris Police."

The judge eyed him. "Are you that inspector who solved the docks strangler case?"

"I am, sir."

"I've heard of you. What is it?"

"I am wondering if you've heard any insanity cases in the last two months."

The judge sat down. He did not offer either of them a seat, but he was paying more attention. "What sort of case?"

"This would be an Englishman studying at the University of France. He may have been committed without his family's knowledge. His cousin, Monsieur Darcy, is here to find him."

The judge paused. "It was a private hearing, on the request of the French side of his family."

"What was his name?"

"I do not remember. It must have been five or six weeks ago, maybe." He gestured for the servant to squeeze his way in and whispered to him. "The file will remind me."

Geoffrey presented his portraiture of George. "Was this him?"

"It looks quite like him."

"Was his name George Wickham?"

"No... It was George something or other." He frowned. "Are you intending to dispute the ruling, Monsieur d'Arcy?"

"No, Your Honor. I just want to find my cousin."

Fortunately the servant was quick to his task, and brought the file before the judge, who sifted through his notes. "Yes – here we go. A Monsieur Bontecou brought his distant cousin, George Bradley, to trial because Monsieur Bradley refused to seek treatment for... monomania." He squinted to read his notes in the receding light. Audley struck a match and lit the candle on the desk for him. "Thank you. There was a nurse present, as well, to support Monsieur Bontecou's claims."

Geoffrey was not sure whether to feel relief or horror. "George Wickham's mother remarried after his father's death. Her new name is Bradley. Pierre Bontecou was his Tutor at University. He would probably know that."

"How did the defendant refute the charges?" Audley said.

"He fully admitted to not seeking treatment for his established condition, but claimed a vast conspiracy against him. He was very agitated, I remember. It began with Monsieur Bontecou and the nurse, whom he said were working together – Marie, her name is recorded here. As I questioned him, the tale got wilder and wilder, and came to include myself, the bailiff, and the University of France. Eventually he had to be restrained, because he was shouting so loudly and banging on the cage that it was feared he would become violent." He glanced up at Geoffrey. "I did make several attempts – as did Nurse Marie – to calm him down, but he would not cease. I offered him a chance to admit himself to a hospital of his choosing, but he refused any sort of treatment, and began a long rant against the entire profession that was outright morbid and unseemly. At that point, I had little choice but to rule against him, for his own safety and ours."

"He wasn't George Bradley," Geoffrey said, "he was George Wickham, and he wasn't insane. They were conspiring against him. Mr. Bontecou was not family. He just needed him locked up so he could drain his accounts. But you – "

Audley interrupted, "Where was he sent after the trial?"

"The family – in this case, Monsieur Bontecou – was made his guardian and put in charge of selecting an institution. I insisted that it must be a private facility and it must be within reasonable access of Paris, where Monsieur Bontecou lived, so that the defendant might not be abandoned."

Audley did not give Geoffrey a chance to speak. "Do you have an address for Monsieur Bontecou?"

"It is a matter of private record."

"I would need a warrant, but I could get it. And then your entire trial would be called into question, considering all of the falsified records that must have been submitted to create such an elaborate ruse against your good judgment," he said. "Or, you can give me the address."

The judge grumbled, but he wrote it down, and slid it across the desk. Audley picked it up so they could see it. It was not Bontecou's old address.

"I'm going to confiscate the case files," Audley said, "but only for a matter of record in the case against Bontecou and the nurse. Then they'll be returned. Please have them ready by tomorrow."

The judge nodded. Robert Audley had a powerful demeanor that he could use even on a superior, and in that moment, Geoffrey Darcy was never more grateful for that.

********************************************

Night settled in while they were inside. Paris was lit up as the rain became light enough to light the gaslights.

"The address is on the other side of the city," Audley said. "I need other officers for an arrest."

"You do that," Geoffrey replied. "I'm going." He doffed his hat.

"You could put yourself in danger."

"From a syphilitic medical student and his nurse? I'll be fine." Audley grabbed his sleeve, but Geoffrey just glared back. "They locked George away. They drove him mad and locked him away, just to get his money."

"I need a team."

"I _don't_." He shook Audley off of him and proceeded down the street.

Audley had to run in front of him. "We need to properly plan this out."

"I have. I'm going to go in and beat someone senseless until he gives up George's location. Then I'll leave. It's a very simple plan."

"What happened to Mr. Darcy, the gentleman?"

"He learned from the best," Geoffrey said.

"Wellington?"

"Georgie." He shoved Audley aside and continued. He made it to the end of the street before Audley caught him again, but this time, he didn't stop him.

"You don't know the neighborhood. You'll need someone to lead the way," the inspector said. "Come on."

********************************************

They managed to find a carriage, and Geoffrey still had enough coin on him to pay their way to a much nicer neighborhood than Mr. Bontecou previously lived in. On the way, Audley checked that his gun cartridge was dry, and gave his spare pistol to Geoffrey, though it was too small to do any serious damage.

It was a three-story apartment, and there was a lock on the door. Audley knocked, but the doorman did not answer. Glancing in both directions, he kneeled down and picked the lock.

"Something they teach you while you're an apprentice?"

"Just a useful skill to have," he said, and they entered, ignoring the closed doorways. The hallway was lit by candles, but only enough to barely make out the spiral staircase in the center. Fortunately it did not make much sound when they climbed it to the third story. Audley used a match to find the door with the right number painted on it, and knocked with the handle of his gun. "Open up! Police!"

It was hard to tell, with all of the noises of the building and the city, if there were noises inside.

He knocked again. "I am giving you until the count of five to open this door. One, two..."

Now there were audible sounds. Geoffrey readied his pistol.

"Three. Four. Fi – "

The door opened, and a pale man in a dressing gown opened the door. There were lamps lit inside, so he had not been asleep, but he had his cap on like he had. "May I help you?"

Audley pulled out his credentials. "Inspector Audley, Paris Police. Are you Monsieur Bontecou?"

There was a look of defeat in his sunken eyes. "I am. What of it? Would you like to come in?" He lacked either the sense of urgency or the energy for it. He simply backed into the sitting room, allowing Audley's entrance.

Geoffrey stayed where he was, hidden with his back against the hallway door. Audley stepped several paces in, Mr. Bontecou now almost with his back to his window. Geoffrey saw the large pistol, drawn from the person behind the door who was out of his sight and Audley's, pointed at Audley's head. Before it could go off, he caught it between the prongs of his jutte weapon, and forced it down. It fired, and hit a vase as Audley spun around to point his own pistol at the woman whose arm Geoffrey was holding down by way of her pistol. "You are under arrest."

"For what?" she said.

"Resisting arrest," he said.

Geoffrey pushed her away, against the wall. She, too, was in her bedclothes, lovely as they were. Her gun was still caught in his jutte, so it couldn't go with her. He grabbed the fired pistol and stuck it in his belt, raising his pistol and jutte instead. The metal glistened in the lamplight. "Where is George Wickham?" he demanded.

"Pierre," she shouted, "do you know of this?"

"You tricked me, you witch!" he cried in response. "I didn't want to do it!"

Audley pointed his pistol at him. "Mr. Bontecou, I repeat my statement that you are under arrest, along with your companion. If you resist further, it will only add to your record."

He backed against the window. "I didn't want to do it," he said. "He was mad, yes – I thought they would take care of him. But he really didn't want to go." Bontecou whimpered. "I can't go to prison."

"The judge will have a say about that, Mr. Bontecou."

"I won't live – I won't live anyway, but I can't – "

With that, he opened the window, and went to throw himself out.

"Pierre!" the woman, presumably Nurse Marie, cried in legitimate concern. Audley dropped the gun and ran to the window to devote both hands to catching his legs. Since it was an awkward motion for Bontecou, he did not fall quickly, and Audley caught him by the ankles.

Marie struck Geoffrey as he was looking away, but he grabbed her before she could interfere for good or ill as Audley held Bontecou, who hung from the window to a perilous fall. His face was already soaked from the rain, and now tears. "Let me go."

"Tell me where Wickham is!"

"Don't!" Marie cried.

"Don't listen to her!" Geoffrey said, and tried to muzzle her, but she bit his hand. She ran for Audley's gun but Geoffrey tackled her and held her down.

"I'll help you," Audley said, "but I need to know."

"Ville-Evrard. _Asylum de Ville-Evrard_!"

Audley released one of his legs and used his free arm to grab Bontecou by the collar, pulling him into the window frame and nearly hurling him back onto the rug. A shivering, soaked Bontecou curled up in a ball but did not resist as Audley shackled him. "You said – "

" – that I'd help you. I have my own definition of that," he said.

... Next Chapter - The Asylum de Ville-Evrard


	18. The Asylum de VilleEvrard

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Note: I do not know why the forums are reported by some browsers as a "forgery." They are not. Disable that message to read them.

* * *

Chapter 18 – The Asylum de Ville-Evrard

Several neighbors had alerted the policeman making rounds, making it easier for Audley to get his two suspects into custody. Marie refused to talk and Pierre was barely comprehensible in his weakened state, so there was no immediate interrogation on the way back to the police station.

"Where will they go?"

"To jail," Audley said, "until the formal interrogation and trial. Provided that their information on Wickham's location is correct."

"Where is Asylum de Ville-Evrard?"

"Outside the city – a few hours by carriage. More, probably, because of the mud from the rain. Why?"

"I'm going."

"When?"

"When I find a carriage."

Audley looked at him as if he was mad. It was well past midnight. They were both soaked and exhausted. Neither had eaten anything since an early lunch. "You're relentless, aren't you?"

"My family is known for that, yes."

Audley stopped at his desk to grab a jar of preserves and a bottle of something or other. "You shouldn't go alone. You need someone of authority."

"I thank you."

"Thank me when I've had some sleep," he said.

It was easy enough to find a carriage, but a bit harder to find one that was willing to take them to their destination. Audley mumbled something about the ridiculous price, but Geoffrey was too tired to care. He climbed in across from Audley and leaned against the window.

"You saved my life."

"You wouldn't have been much help to me if you were dead," Geoffrey said. "Besides, you saved Pierre Bontecou's life."

"Suicide is a terrible way to die."

"How do you know?"

Audley couldn't help but chuckle. "How did you stop her? I didn't see it."

Geoffrey pulled out his Japanese jutte. "My constable weaponry."

"That is what they give you?"

"It's not a sought-after position."

Audley inspected it. It was just a piece of metal with a second hinge; it wasn't even sharp. "Very impressive. And definitely the strangest weapon I've ever seen that's intended to be a weapon." He handed it back to Geoffrey.

"What would be the other type? The unintentional weapon?"

"Hot soup."

Geoffrey laughed. "That's it?"

"It was _very_ hot."

"Who hit you with it?"

"The one who figured this all out. Cécile."

"Who?"

"My assistant. And fiancée." He added, "Intended fiancée."

"You haven't asked her?"

"Marriage? On an inspector's salary?" he said. "But we've discussed it. Someday."

"You should start taking bribes like any decent constable."

Audley looked out the window, now dotted with raindrops. "I suppose it would be in my best interest. Did you take bribes?"

"I was richer than that whole village, so it would have been difficult for them to do. Nonetheless I did accept gifts for Alison."

"Your daughter."

"Yes. She's four now." He reached deep into his coat and removed a velvet slip, and withdrew a tiny painting the size of his fist with a wood backing. "Here."

Audley lit a match to see it. It was Georgiana, with a two-year-old girl on her lap. Even though Georgie was in a proper dress and a hat, he could see that she still kept her hair far too short for a proper lady. Her daughter's hair was the same color, and longer. "She's beautiful," he said, and handed it back to Geoffrey, mainly because he was low on matches.

The pitter-patter of rain against the windows and the jolting of the carriage as it rode over the cobbled, ancient streets of Paris did not stop either of them from falling to sleep. They would have remained that way the entire ride, but they were shaken awake and brought out to help lift the trapped wheels from the mud several times. The third time, the sky was turning blue, and when they were roused again, it was day.

Audley looked at his watch. Half past six. The rain stopped, but the ground was still wet, and he nudged Geoffrey, who groaned at the disturbance and muttered something unintelligible before opening his eyes. Audley climbed out to be assaulted by the soreness in his muscles, but he shook it off, and helped Geoffrey out of the carriage.

"Monsieur Inspector."

The driver was pointing to the building down a gravel path. They were in a small village that would be picturesque if it were cleaned up a little, and perhaps not so muddy, and the largest building was a small walk away, off the main road and into the fields. The architecture was superbly gothic for a hospital. It must have been a noble's mansion in the previous century, or at least at some point in the past.

Geoffrey mumbled instructions for the driver to wait, and gave him money before proceeding down the gravel road that lead through the massive lawn. "Have you ever been in an asylum?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Have you?"

"No."

"It's different now. Doctor Pinel changed everything. They're all supposed to be much more humane."

"Who?"

"Philippe Pinel, a physician who used to be the head of the Bicêtre Hospital in Paris. He was against most of the old methods of treating patients like animals. Nonetheless, prepare yourself for the worst."

Geoffrey swallowed as they approached the front doors, which were closed. When they knocked, the proper doorman emerged and looked skeptically at the well-worn visitors. "May I help you?"

"My name is Inspector Audley of the Paris Police," he said, too tired to pull out his credentials. "This is Monsieur d'Arcy. We are looking for a patient named George Wickham."

"Come in, Inspector." He opened the door further for them to enter. The hallway was so quiet, it was almost unsettling. Please be seated, and I will call a nurse."

"Thank you."

They sat down on the bench by the door. Apparently they would not yet be offered refreshment, if at all. A few minutes passed before a nun approached them, and they rose and bowed. "Monsieurs, the doctor is making his rounds now. May I help you?"

"We're looking for a patient who was committed last month," Geoffrey said. "George Wickham. He may be under the name George Bradley."

"We do have a George Bradley here. Are you his relative?"

He felt so light that he could float away, as the weight was removed from his shoulders. "Yes! Yes – I'm his cousin, Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Wickham was incarcerated under false pretenses," Audley said. "The man who claimed to be his cousin was nothing more than a scheming thief. Mr. Darcy is here representing his real family."

"Please, take me to George," Geoffrey said.

The nun hesitated for a moment before turning around. "This way. Please do nothing to disturb the other patients. We try to keep the grounds as quiet as possible."

There was natural light coming in through the windows, and the ancient walls had an out-of-place fresh coat of white paint over them, but that did not eliminate the sensation that they were in a prison, not a place of rest with "grounds." Some of the cells had proper doors, some had ancient ones, all with barred windows. Geoffrey tried to keep himself from looking beyond the bars, but it was often difficult, because the patients had no internal sources of light in their cells.

"Dr. Godenot," the nun said, as a well-dressed man emerged from one of the cells, followed by a nun with a tray. "These men are here to see George Bradley." In whispered, very fast French she gave him whatever summary she chose to give him. His face fell.

"Is this true?" he said, speaking in English but with a very heavy accent to them.

"That George Bradley is George Wickham, my cousin?" Geoffrey said. "I hope so. We're looking for him."

"Then I will show you to him. We have only taken the best care of him, Monsieur." He turned to the left, and they followed, the nun with the tray trailing behind him. "Monsieur Bradley has claimed on a number of occasions that his name is Wickham. I did attempt to contradict him, but he would not be corrected, so I let it be. In the past few weeks, he has stopped protesting."

Geoffrey shuddered. "What have you been – what is his treatment?"

"Observation, mostly. We are not barbarians. He becomes very agitated when alert. He refuses to eat his meals, claiming I am trying to poison him, so he is kept under sedation for the purposes of his own health. We will not let him harm himself."

Audley gave Geoffrey a supportive glance.

"If what you say is true, then of course your cousin will be released into your custody, but I do recommend he be transferred to another facility. He can be a very difficult patient and it is not in the family's best interest to attempt to treat him themselves, as many do. They are not enlightened." He stopped in front of a door. "A moment, please."

Audley caught Geoffrey from rushing in, and the doctor took the tray and entered, closing the door behind him. There was some conversation, but it was mumbled, and then there was a scream – a horrible scream not of pain but of enduring agony. This time, Audley could not hold him back. Geoffrey pushed the nun aside and burst into the room. "What are you doing to George?"

The doctor stood, and set the needle device back on the tray on the bed stand. "It's all right, Monsieur. He should be calm soon. It takes a moment to work."

One of the doctor's hands remained pressed against the chest of his patient, who was fighting fruitlessly against the straightjacket, leather straps around his ankles that kept him tied to the bed.

"What the hell did you do to him?"

Slowly the man settled, and the doctor removed his muzzle, revealing a very hairy, bearded man who did, upon careful inspection, resemble George Wickham.

"It's just a sedative – opium, mostly."

"You stabbed him."

"This is a syringe, Monsieur. It injects the medicine into his veins. Much safer than making him drink it."

"Get out of here. And take your fucking poisons with you."

Geoffrey did not see the doctor's expression as he left the tiny room. He didn't care, whatever it was. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "George?" There was not a visible response, just uneasy breathing and closed eyes. "George, it's me. Geoffrey. Geoffrey Darcy."

George opened his eyes. They looked sunken into his face, and he could not seem to find Geoffrey's face. Maybe the drug made it so he couldn't focus. His eyes were strange and glazed. "What?"

"Geoffrey. Your cousin. Uncle Darcy's son."

George's voice was hoarse, but it was still George's. "I know who Geoffrey Darcy is."

"I'm here to take you out of here."

The response was slow. His eyes closed again. "Don't trick me," he said in French. "You can't trick me."

"Isabel sent me. She hasn't gotten a letter from you in a long time. She's at the end of her term and she wants to see you, so she sent me to find you."

George slowly shook his head. "Geoffrey's in Japan."

"We've come home. Georgie's well – she's with child. Due in a few months." It seemed so far beyond him now, an unimaginable wonder when he'd only had dark thoughts for days. "Alison is four. She's twice the height in your memories, and two months ago, she barely spoke English. Just Japanese." He would have taken George's hand, but it was buried in the straightjacket. "We stopped in Italy and brought Charles back. He's home. We just need you to complete the family."

George opened his eyes again. "Geoffrey?"

"Yes." He grinned. "It's me."

"Did you – did you tell my sister?"

"That I've found you? No, I've not had time to write in the last few minutes."

"I... I don't – I don't want her to worry," he said. His voice was really little more than a whisper. "Don't tell her – tell her nothing's wrong."

"You can tell her yourself when we get home," he said, and nodded to Audley, who left his post in the doorway to speak to the doctor. "Let me get you out of these." He un-strapped George's legs. His feet were bare, and only the loose-fitting striped pants protected his ankles from the leather. They were swollen and bruised. "I'm going to get you out of here."

It took some time to find the buckles to remove the straps of George's straightjacket, freeing his arms at last. Wickham was largely unresponsive, in a permanent dozing state. He had two months of a beard and smelled foul. Beneath the jacket, he was wearing only a linen shirt that was beyond rescue. "No – no," he said at last, when Geoffrey sat him up. "Don't touch me. Please don't touch me."

He was shivering. Geoffrey removed his coat and put it over George's shoulders, something his cousin immediately refused but ultimately accepted. He was not only sedated but also confused and frightened. Geoffrey imagined that if he were chained to a bed and drugged every day for almost two months, he might feel the same way.

Geoffrey sat beside him, waiting. He had so much to tell him, and so much to ask, but he knew he couldn't. George was beyond his reach until the drug wore off, and he was just intruding. "You need shoes," he realized, and removed his own. "It's all right. I was practically barefoot in Japan for two years." Eventually he convinced George to slip into the boots, which were too wide for him, but would work for the time being. "Do you want to eat something?"

George did not respond. He stared at the floor. At least he was upright.

"Monsieur Wickham," the doctor said, and Geoffrey looked up. George tried to hide beneath the coat. "Apparently there has been a horrible mistake. You have my apologies. I am sorry we could not do more for you."

That was it? A mistake? George was held captive and tortured for nearly two months and it was _a mistake?_ But Geoffrey did not protest. His concern for George overwhelmed his other emotions, including his anger. "George," he whispered, "we're going to take you back to Paris, to a hotel, where you can rest. It's me and Inspector Audley, who helped me find you." George retreated at his touch. "We need to leave. Do you want to leave?"

Wickham could not stand on his own, he tried, but he fell on Geoffrey. Audley helped. He had with him a bag labeled _George Bradley_, presumably the items he entered with. "Come along."

"Monsieur d'Arcy, I cannot express my regret that you were not – "

"I don't want to hear it," Geoffrey said. "I don't want to hear your regrets, Doctor. I want to take my cousin home."

George found his feet by the time they made it to the front doors, where they were opened wide for them, but he was still too weak and disoriented to hold himself up. Geoffrey was there for him when he cried out and tried to hide himself from the sun, something he'd probably not seen in a long time, and with Audley's help, they made it down the path and to the carriage.

Audley guided George not to the carriage itself but a bench beside the local tavern. He turned to Geoffrey. "I'm going to find us some food before we leave."

Only then would Geoffrey's overworked system acknowledge how hungry he was. It had been a full day since he'd eaten. George was probably no better. He rocked himself on the bench, shivering despite the warm sunlight of early summer and Geoffrey's heavy coat. He jerked away whenever Geoffrey touched him.

"Isabel sent me," Geoffrey said. "She misses you. She wants you home for the baby, if there is one. Mr. Franklin would have come, but he didn't want to leave your sister. He sent his solicitor, but he didn't get anywhere. It took a real Parisian inspector to find you."

George did seem to be aware of his words but did not openly acknowledge them. Audley returned with a sack of food, but also with a jug of water and clean cloth, and together they forced George to accept that at least his face, neck, and hands needed to be washed. Beneath the sweat and grime was pale skin, but he looked just a bit more human.

The driver didn't look pleased to see a mental patient being loaded into his cart, but he took Geoffrey's money all the same, and they were off. George initially refused all the food they offered with a series of grunts and hand gestures, trying to bury himself in the cushions across from Geoffrey.

"More for us," Audley said. He was already scarfing down the cheese and fresh bread, which smelled too good for even George to resist. He had a few pieces, and abandoned the rest on the cushion. Geoffrey finished them himself, along with a croissant, and an unidentified meat patty. He opened the jug of ale and passed it to Audley, then took a long drink for himself. He held it up to George, who just turned his face into the window.

"It's ale. Probably not the best thing for you right now, but you need to drink something and there's no tea."

"Poison me," George whispered.

"Then I've poisoned myself several times over." Geoffrey took another long swig and offered it again. This time, George accepted, if only a mouthful.

After they'd finished all the food, Audley laid his head back and nodded off. Geoffrey opened the bag of George's things. There was a pocket watch in desperate need of winding, a purse (empty), and two books. One was medical and in French. The other was in English, though it was not easy to read. Geoffrey laughed. "Of course. Your faithful companion, Sir Thomas. Would you like to read?"

George could not form words to respond. He didn't seem all that capable of doing anything, much less reading. Geoffrey opened the book himself. "I'm game. 'King Arthur and his Noble Knights of the Round Table. Chapter one. It befell in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England, and so reigned, that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him long time...'"

The words had their intentional effect of calming George enough to lull him back to sleep, and the calm rest he needed.

Geoffrey kept reading, even when his throat was dry.

... Next Chapter - Uncomfortable Subjects


	19. Uncomfortable Subjects

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Note: I do not know why the forums are reported by some browsers as a "forgery." They are not. Disable that message to read them.

* * *

Chapter 19 – Uncomfortable Subjects

"Inspector Audley? You don't mean – "

"I _do_ mean," Georgiana said, holding Geoffrey's latest letter in her hand. "I told Geoffrey to look him up if he was having trouble. Apparently he is."

Lady Heather Maddox tugged on Georgie's sleeve. "But Mr. Wickham has not been found dead. So surely he is alive."

"So we are assured, though we've no proof of it." Georgie accepted the plate from the tray. Her hunger was insatiable, as only could be expected. Lady Heather only took tea. "Anything to find George."

"I do remember he had a bit of a – "

Georgie blushed, for more reasons than Heather knew. "You noticed? Please, let's not speak of it." They were within the walls of the Darcy townhouse, which meant that there were servants everywhere. "Let me enjoy these moments of peace before my aunt and uncle storm in."

"They'll hardly storm. You've not told them."

"No, that is true, but I intend to tell them immediately and get it over with." She looked up at the doorman, who had returned rather quickly, now without a tray. "What is it?"

"Mrs. Geoffrey, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy have arrived."

********************************************

Geoffrey Darcy was a bit flustered when he realized how much there was to do upon arriving at his Parisian hotel. George had no clothes to his name besides the ones he wore and those locked up in his room at University. George would not accept help from any of the servants, becoming alarmed at their presence so that Geoffrey had to set up everything himself, in front of George's nervous gaze, before he would accept that his room was safe and he could wash himself and rest in peace.

"Inspector," Geoffrey nodded, aware at how tired Audley must be. The ride in the afternoon was shorter with the roads drier, and a carriage was no place for rest.

Audley bowed and offered him his card. "Let me know if you need more immediately. I will return tonight to speak to Mr. Wickham."

"What about his captors? The Tutor, I mean."

"The case has to be drawn up before they can be brought to trial, and some of it depends on Mr. Wickham's testimony, though their falsification of records is enough to at least deport them. Have no fear."

Honestly, it was not his concern at the moment. "Thank you."

They bowed, and Audley excused himself. Geoffrey sighed, and knocked on the door to the washroom. He could not go to sleep until he knew George was well to whatever extent was currently possible. "George?"

George Wickham opened the door just enough to see most of his slim figure. Despite the elaborate shaving kit left open for him, he still had the unkempt beard of some foreign tribesman. At least now it was clean, and he was wearing some of Geoffrey's clothing. Geoffrey's proper coat wouldn't fit him, but he would not let a servant wash him, much less see a tailor. "I can't stop." He held up his hands, which were shaking. "I don't know why."

It was not worth asking if George wanted a doctor, or even some kind of apothecary. "Let me order something up. Your room is the next door down."

George nodded and made the dash, cloaking himself in his towel, to the bedchamber, and slammed the door behind him. Geoffrey returned to the main room and ordered up some whiskey. He poured himself a glass when it arrived, but didn't touch it. Instead he knocked on George's door again. "George. I have something for you."

Again George would only open the door a few inches, enough to see him. "What? What is it? Who's there?"

Geoffrey held up the bottle, and the glass. "Whiskey. Single malt. Your favorite." He took a long sip, leaving a little in the glass before handing it to George. "To help you sleep."

He nodded. "Thank you." His hands were still shaking, but he did take a tiny sip before shutting the door.

Geoffrey turned to his next task – penning the briefest possible letter to his wife to be sent express. In his exhausted haze he could only manage a few lines about George being recovered and their efforts to bring him back to health as soon as possible. He did not wait for the wax to dry properly before ordering it sent off and retiring to his own room, where a servant helped him out of his vest and took instructions to wake him if his guest emerged from his room or requested anything.

Beyond that, he remembered only the taunting image of a freshly-made bed, and the agonizing last few steps before he could reach it, and he could sleep.

********************************************

It was late when Geoffrey woke. The sky was already darkening, but even that could not rush him out of bed. He lay quiet for a little while, safe in the knowledge that the real danger was past. George was found. He would be well again, in time – he always was. Geoffrey did not doubt it for a moment. It just would take longer. They might not be home for the baby's birth, but if it survived, it could wait to meet its uncle.

Lazily he threw on his clothes and rang for some food, settling down in the main room with the newspaper. He paid little attention to the words on the page, but it felt good to do an ordinary activity.

When he could put it off no longer, he knocked on George's door and entered.

George Wickham, for whatever reason, had pushed his bed into the corner of the room, and sat on it, wrapped in a blanket and trying to spear at the food on the plate in front of him, something left over from when they arrived. "I – I can't stop it." His hands were shaking. "I feel like I need to run. Fast. I need to go."

"Where do you wish to go?"

"Nowhere," he said, not looking at Geoffrey. "I just want to go. Move." He added, "The whiskey helps. A little. I don't want to be drunk. I don't want to be drugged. But I want to be drugged. Can you understand?" He frowned. "How can you understand? I'm talking like a madman." His fork banged against the plate so hard as to nearly crack it.

"George, you've had a bad time. You need to rest."

"I can't! I can't stop it." He finally managed, with his hand, to get a piece of bread into his mouth. "They did something to me. In the hospital, they did something to me. In the madhouse. They made me like this."

Geoffrey considered it. "How often did they drug you?"

"It felt like all the time." His voice cracked, but he did not cry. "I always fought them so they always did. If I started listening to them, I would have nothing. I wouldn't be George Wickham. I would be George Bradley. But George Bradley doesn't exist. I wouldn't be anyone. I couldn't let that happen." He set the plate aside. "How long was I there? Do I want to know?"

"You'd find out eventually," he said. "Six weeks, approximately. I haven't seen the forms so I can't tell you exactly."

"My sister knows?"

"You didn't write and you didn't come home, so she sent me. Mr. Franklin's solicitor tried first, but he didn't get anywhere."

George nodded and interlaced his fingers. The skin was raw. "I don't want her to see me like this."

"She won't. She's still in England, and when we return, you'll be better." He gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm going to go out before everything closes and pick up some things. Do you need anything before I leave?"

George shook his head, and Geoffrey bowed and left. Behind him, he could hear George lock the door.

********************************************

Much as George might not like it, Geoffrey's first visit was to an apothecary. "My friend is overexcited," he said, shaking his hands. "He's rubbed his hands raw."

"Is this phenomena new?"

"I've not seen it before." He added, "He's just come off six weeks of opium injections."

"A recovering addict?"

"Poor doctoring."

The apothecary shook his head. "You chase the dragon or the dragon chases you. Stopping right out like that is brutal." He stepped back to his laboratory behind the counter and began mixing potions. "He's going to be in a lot of pain."

"What do you have for it?"

"Opium. A small dose, smaller every day. I'll make you five packets. Don't give him more than one a day, no matter how he screams at you. Is he a big fellow?"

"No." George was taller than him, but surely in that state he was weaker?

"Good for you." The apothecary packaged up five neat little packets, labeled first day, second day, etc. "Put it in something else and stir. Anything except laudanum. It has opium in it."

Geoffrey paid and took the medicine, if one would call it that. "Thank you."

His next stop was easier once he found a bookshop that was still open. He didn't tarry, or overbuy, but George's preferences were easy to predict. He had a few books bundled, and carried them back to the hotel.

He was about to ascend the stairs when a concierge gestured to him. "Mr. Darcy, I was about to knock on your door. An Inspector Audley to see you. He's waiting in the lobby."

"Send him up."

"Of course, sir."

Geoffrey continued up, wanting to make it there before Audley. He opened the door to his rooms, but there was no servant to take his coat – only George on the couch, wild-eyed and shaking, but very much awake and at least out of his room. "I sent them away."

"Inspector Audley is coming up. He was with me when we found you."

"He knows – all about me?"

"I had to tell him. It was the only way he could conduct an investigation." He turned back to the door when he heard the knock, and opened the door for the inspector. "Inspector Audley."

"Mr. Darcy." A much better groomed Audley entered, removing his hat. He bowed to George. "Mr. Wickham."

George nodded politely.

"How are you feeling?"

George just looked down at his hands.

"I apologize for so personal a question," Audley said. It wasn't, of course, but he must have sensed George would see it that way. "Pierre Bontecou and the woman you know as Nurse Marie are in jail, awaiting trial. In addition to falsifying records, giving false testimony, and having you committed, they also stole a thousand pounds, which may or may not be recovered. They might have stolen more if there was no cap on the account."

His voice was a whisper. "What's to happen to them?"

"At the very least, exportation. Probably worse. It does heavily depend on your statement, of course. And what other charges you wish to press."

George didn't look at him. He just looked down. "I need time."

"You can wait a few days, Mr. Wickham. Even weeks, if you so choose, considering the circumstances. Your statement will be held in more value the better your own health." He sat down in the armchair across from him, which George didn't object to, or really acknowledge. Geoffrey, seeing George ran all the servants out, poured a drink for Audley, who accepted it. "There is one matter I would like to ask about. You've been sending some twenty pounds a month to Mr. Bradley, whom I understand is your stepfather. I assume this is a circumstance unrelated to the events of the last two months?"

"Yes." This time, he was quicker to answer and his voice was stronger. "Mr. Bradley's a good man. He couldn't plan something like this. My mother, maybe... I don't know. I don't know when, but before I returned to school in the fall, Mr. Bradley came to me at the Franklin house and petitioned me for money. He was so embarrassed about it, especially with Mother always bothering me. He's not without a coin to his name, but he has six children. I have six half-brothers and half-sisters. It's just too much." He looked up at Geoffrey. "Was I fool?"

"No. You were very kind."

"He only asked for five, maybe ten, but I said I would give him twenty if he put half away for my half-sisters' dowries. He really is a good man. He didn't ask to be my father."

"Then it's not my concern," Audley said. "We also spoke with a Madame Valerie."

"She couldn't be involved. Tell me she wasn't."

"Not to my knowledge. She seemed concerned for you."

"I didn't mean to abandon her."

Geoffrey wasn't sure missing an appointment with a whore was akin to abandonment, but George either thought it was or was not in his right mind, or both. "She's fine."

"Oh G-d. You were there? You can't tell Izzy. Please don't."

"I won't. Of all the things I've told her, that was not one of them. That I promise you."

"How is she? Is she well?"

"Worried, but well. Very expecting. Georgie is staying with her."

"Georgie... why isn't she here? By your side? That's so odd. Not like her."

Geoffrey shifted on his heels. "Georgiana is... indisposed."

Unfortunately for Geoffrey, George's face lit up. "That's wonderful! When does she begin her confinement?"

"Soon. A few weeks."

"I felt so bad – for both of you. Alison was too young to understand. I was afraid she would go do something crazy in Japan. Tell me she didn't. After the stillbirth. Tell me – "

"She's well," he said. His loyalties shifted between wanting George to emerge from his shell and having Audley in the room for this apparent conversation. "We'll discuss it later. It is very late."

Audley rose. "I have other matters to attend to before the night is out. I will be in contact, Mr. Wickham, when you are ready to speak."

George nodded and gave a little bow of the head as Audley exited. Geoffrey sighed in relief. George was oblivious. "It hurts."

"I know. It's the opium they gave you."

His eyes opened again. "I'm an addict!"

"Unintentionally – "

"G-d, I know the treatment for this – you have to decrease the dose – "

Geoffrey held up the apothecary's packets. "I have it. You get your first dose in the morning, and not a moment before. I'm supposed to be strict with you."

"I know." He didn't seem pleased at the prospect. He was still shaking.

"I also bought some books, since the rest are in London or your University. I'm sure you've memorized them all, but..." He handed the package to George, who hugged it to his chest. "Is the whiskey all right?"

"Yes."

"They said it was their best. I don't know enough to tell. More of a brandy person."

"It is. Thank you." He put his legs up on the couch, pulling himself tighter. "Thank you for everything."

"You know you needn't ask."

They ate together. This time, George ate some of his own food without waiting for Geoffrey to test it first. He had a full glass of whiskey and retired for the evening.

It was late and despite his long rest, Geoffrey was already tired again. The events of the past few days, his constant and continuing worry over George's condition, and his unavoidable anxiety about Audley's presence wore him down. This time he sat down to pen a much longer letter to his wife, explaining fully the circumstances of George's hospitalization. He paused when he reached the line about a recovery. They would need to leave within a few days to be home in time for Isabel's travails, but as long as she knew he was safe, surely that would be enough? George wasn't near ready to return to England. He could barely leave his room. He was coming off an addiction to opium and he had to decide if he was going to send Pierre Bontecou and Nurse Marie to their deaths, something he would have worried over in a state of perfect mental health. Geoffrey could not predict anything but a prolonged stay. Perhaps his father would visit – surely his father would visit.

He added words of sympathy to Georgie, for having to deal with his parents when they made their inevitable appearance. He wanted to be by her side or have her by his, and he did not spare his words in saying so. Why did George have to bring up the death of their son? In front of _Audley_ of all people?

Because, of course, he didn't know the connection. Because George wasn't sensible. He was in obvious pain and distress. He would be forgiven. Geoffrey resolved to forgive him.

Just not at the moment.

... Next Chapter - Long Memories


	20. Long Memories

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Note: I do not know why the forums are reported by some browsers as a "forgery." They are not. Disable that message to read them.

* * *

Chapter 20 – Long Memories

Despite his late night, Geoffrey did not have much of a chance to sleep in. George was standing over him, shaking him awake before he knew it. "Where is it?"

It was not a pleasant sight, the wild look in his cousin's eyes. "Where is what?"

"The medicine. You said you got medicine for me. For the pain."

"George, ow!"

He did not loosen his grip. "Where is it? Please."

Geoffrey opened the drawer of the bed stand and removed the first packet, and put it in the glass. "Do you have water?"

"Just whiskey." George didn't hesitate to fill the glass, shake it, and knock it all back in one gulp. Only then did he step back, unsure of his footing, and collapse into the armchair. Geoffrey sighed and buried his head in the pillow. He didn't wish to listen to George's sobbing, but he didn't have the heart to tell him to leave.

He must have succeeded in falling back to sleep, because when he woke, George was slumped over in the chair, sleeping. A full glass of whiskey on an empty stomach and a dose of opium would probably do that. Geoffrey rang for a servant, first ordering him to carry his cousin back into his own room before Geoffrey officially rose and was dressed for the day.

He was as much a prisoner of the hotel as George was. He couldn't leave him, and his only outlet was to write. What news was there to report? He pondered this over breakfast, and ordered up a paper.

A bit after noon, he was informed of a caller, and he welcomed Inspector Audley. "My cousin is still sleeping, I believe. He passed right out after his morning dose."

"Good for him," Audley said, and accepted the offered tea. "I had a session with Pierre Bontecou this morning."

"And what does the Tutor have to say?"

"Not much," Audley said. "He denied nothing, but his condition is advanced."

"Is he insane?"

"He has periods of clarity, and he was not physically weakened enough not to try to throw himself out a window, but he is in a great deal of distress and will continue to be until his death. I would give him a few months. Under excellent care, maybe more."

Geoffrey grunted and looked down at his cup.

"It is fairly clear from his account and other evidence that he was not the mastermind of this scheme. For what it's worth, he seems to care for George on some level."

"So it was the woman?"

"Marie Pomeroy is her proper name, and yes, it was her. She was Pierre's nurse, until he ran out of money. By his account, he was in a great deal of pain without his medicine, and would do anything to get it – even resolving to desperate means to do so. You recall the envelopes on Mr. Wickham's table, addressed to Mr. Bontecou?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Wickham was sending him sulfur powders for his sores. He was too embarrassed to accept them in person."

"It seems that would make George the last person he would want to terrorize."

"You can only get so far without many options. Mr. Bontecou was desperate, and Mrs. Pomeroy saw her chance in two men who could be prodded into insanity – one very rich, and one shortly to die and leave her all his stolen money."

"Some nurse."

"I have yet to interview her. The female is the more complex species. It requires more care."

"Oh really?"

"That's what I find. I would rather go to her with all the information, which was easy to get from Bontecou."

Geoffrey shook his head. "Your strategy is cruel."

"But effective."

"I didn't say I disapproved of it." Geoffrey added more sugar to his tea. "I assume if George presses charges, they'll both go to the, uhm – "

" – guillotine, yes. And possibly even if he does not. They did defraud a bank and swear falsely in front of a judge."

"I don't understand it. What would make a nurse do something so evil?"

"They didn't kill him. They could have done that," Audley said. "Poverty is the ultimate indignity, especially in the face of wealth."

"George didn't exactly live like a dandy."

"I suppose, if Bontecou knew he had some money, it would make Wickham seem ever more a miser. Even if he had to his name only ten thousand pounds, that's a great fortune to most of Paris." Any further speech was cut off by the furious wrangling of a doorknob, the door swinging wide, and George Wickham emerging from his room. He still had not shaved or cut his hair, and had a particularly wily appearance. "I want my dose. I need it."

"You had it. You may not remember it – "

"_I want it_."

"You stormed in, you drank a whole glass – "

Audley calmly set aside his teacup, rose, and stood between Geoffrey and George. "Mr. Wickham, I know you're in a great deal of pain – "

"_How do you know that?_" He grabbed Audley by the arms, and Audley allowed himself to be grabbed, but not shook. "How do you know? Who are you?"

"George, this is Inspector Audley. You remember Inspector Audley. He's – "

"_I'm not a fool!_" George shouted. "And I'm not mad. I just want my medicine."

"It's an addiction, Mr. Wickham, forcibly created with the prospect of helping you by an uninformed physician. You're a medical student, are you not? You are also, I'm informed, a very intelligent one, and know that freeing yourself from the throes – " George struck him, but Audley caught it, because he was ready for it. "Yes, it does hurt. All great struggles are struggles, but it is for your own good."

Now George's voice was a whisper, as Audley was holding his arms and Audley was stronger even though he was shorter. "Geoffrey, if you are Geoffrey, please. Don't do this to me. Don't be the doctors."

"You'll thank me – "

"You're just like the rest of them! Both of you!" He broke free and lunged for Geoffrey, but Audley tackled him. "No! I won't go back! I'm not insane! Please, listen to me. I'm not insane..."

"Mr. Darcy," Audley said, "please go into Mr. Wickham's room and remove anything he could use to harm himself. Including his sheets. And be quick about it."

Geoffrey dashed into George's room and did precisely that, removing any glassware, the sheets beneath his comforter, and anything with sharp edges. He dumped them unceremoniously on the table outside the door as Audley carried George, screaming, into the room. They had to push him back far enough to keep him away when they shut and locked the door. Geoffrey wanted to close his ears to George's crying and shouting, but he couldn't. He could only slump down onto the floor, his back to the door, feeling the vibrations of George's futile banging.

"I know it's the right thing to do," he said, "but it doesn't make it easier."

"It never does," Audley replied, and offered a hand to help Geoffrey up.

"How did you know he was going to attack you?"

"He's an addict. He will try almost anything to find relief. Like Mr. Bontecou, in a way. Not to truly compare them, of course."

"Of course."

George eventually stopped pounding on the door, but Geoffrey wasn't anxious for Audley to leave yet. He wasn't sure what he would do or how he would make it through the next few days. _Maybe I should have told my father_.

Fortunately the mail arrived, and he invited Audley to help himself to the hotel lunch as he opened the letters. Surely they had some of his letters by now, but the transit time meant they could not have also responded to them, so they were all reassurances that they were fine, including Isabel, who had not yet delivered.

He laughed out loud as he opened the last one, with bigger paper but fewer letters.

"What is it?"

"My daughter. She's learning how to write," he said.

_Dear Papa,_

_Mama helped with the words but I wrote this letter all by myself. I miss you very much. You promised to come home soon and you have to keep your promise._

_I wanted to ask if you could make it so I have a brother so I can be a little smarter than him because Mama always says girls are smarter than boys. Thank you._

_Love,_

_Alison Darcy_

She put a little spin on the final Y of her name, or perhaps it was more of a scribble. There were crossed-out first attempts at the words, but in the end, she managed to get it right. "Adorable." He folded it back up and put it in his chest pocket.

"How old is she?"

"Four. Nearly four-and-a-half." He took some of the leftover whiskey and poured himself a glass. "They grow up so fast."

"So everyone tells me," Audley said as Geoffrey drank. "It seems like it was just yesterday – " He stopped himself and avoided Geoffrey's glare. Usually he was so careful. "My apologies."

Geoffrey said nothing, finishing his drink.

"I shouldn't have asked – "

"No. You shouldn't have." Geoffrey took the rest of the letters and packed them up in his case. "Listen, I am more than appreciative of all you've done for George, I assure you – in fact, I'm fairly sure he would still be in that terrible madhouse if it weren't for you – but I will not tolerate – "

"What? You discussing your own child and me listening? Am I just supposed to close my ears every time you mention someone whose last name doesn't or formerly didn't end with Wickham?" Audley said. "I'm standing right here. It's impossible."

Whether Audley was expecting it in a more general sense did not matter; Geoffrey hit him so fast that he didn't have time to catch it. Geoffrey was faster and stronger than George, and Audley was knocked back across the room, slamming into the wall. He kept to his feet, holding a hand over his wounded eye. "You could go to prison for assaulting a policeman."

"What's the punishment for violating a girl?"

Geoffrey tried again, but Audley caught it this time, and pushed him back. Geoffrey knocked over the coffee table and fell onto the couch. "She wasn't a girl. She was a woman. And she gave herself to me!"

Geoffrey launched himself at Audley again, ramming him into the wall, and then the bookcase. Audley finally managed to deck him hard enough to push him away. "She did. She wasn't drunk, or drugged. She was lonely and upset – over you! How the hell do you think I learned the name Geoffrey Darcy?"

"I was eighteen! What was I supposed to do – propose? I was a University student. My father never would have consented. Her father never would have consented."

"Because you always do as you're told. Something she and I learned not to do a long time ago."

Geoffrey growled. His punch to the stomach did connect, but Audley pushed him off by striking him in the face with the back of his arm. He stepped back. Audley huffed. "I'm not in love with your wife. Maybe I was, almost a decade ago, but you needn't regard me as some kind of stalking adulterer. Yes, I still care for her, as any decent man would, and I am allowed to ask about the wellbeing of a friend."

"She's not _a friend _to you. She's another man's wife. _My_ wife," Geoffrey seethed. "I wasn't ready to be married, and neither was she. I wasn't ready to be a father or a husband. However worldly you are, Inspector, I assure you there is nothing that compares to the duties of family, of which, you have no experience, and have only avoided – "

"I proposed to her."

Geoffrey snarled. Audley was expecting it, and got out of the way, but Geoffrey didn't let him go. He grabbed him by the side of his jacket and tackled him to the floor. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Exactly what you would be thinking, if you'd just done something beyond every boundary of propriety – and yes, I do know what English propriety means, even if I don't always adhere to it. I asked for her hand, and I can't remember her precise words, but she just looked at me and said something like, 'Fuck you, I'm marrying Geoffrey Darcy.'" He pulled away, collecting himself in the corner and watching Geoffrey's stunned expression. "She was utterly convinced that you did love her even though you said otherwise. Apparently she was right, but at that moment, I didn't have the proof. You can't blame me for wanting to see the proof! Or I suppose you could, in that stubborn English mind of yours, but you'd be a fool." He wiped his cheek, which was bleeding, with his sleeve. "At that precise moment, I loved her, but she wouldn't have me. That's the truth of it. The physical affection she had for me was probably limited to the place and time. All I've ever wanted from you was some reassurance that she made the right choice – that she's happy where she is. That she has a husband as devoted to her as she apparently always was to him."

"I took her to the fucking Orient! To the middle of nowhere, in a country that hates foreigners, just so she could be happy. Do you have any idea what kind of devotion that takes? I drank wine made from rice. Rice!"

"You haven't answered my question."

Geoffrey sat up against the couch, catching his breath. In the moments before he spoke, all that could be heard was their heavy breathing. "Marriage is not one long honeymoon, Inspector. There are wonderful moments and terrible moments and lost children and illness and the constant, constant worry that your wife might do something in combat and hurt herself and you might lose her, but you'll lose her if you don't let her go anyway. What are you supposed to do then? But yes, I love her and she loves me with the same devotion and probably with the same ferocity she so eloquently expressed to you, and she _is_ happy. We have a daughter and g-d willing we'll soon have another child. What else do you want from me, before you'll leave us to our privacy?"

Audley sighed, and leaned his head against the bookcase. "That was all."

"Will you promise never to mention her again?'

"No. I will not. Not if it comes up in conversation, I will not hold my tongue and just pretend you are a widower. If you want to keep playing the jealous husband when there is nothing left to be jealous of, that bodes worse for you than it does for me."

Geoffrey withdrew his clenched fist. Instead he pounded it into the ground. "She should have been mine."

"Yes, our sex is forever attuned to that persistent yet somewhat unnecessary need to claim our territory. I've known few women who would do the same."

Geoffrey put his head in his hands. _She should have been mine_. At least this time he didn't say it out loud. "Audley, you can't expect me to be completely civil about the particular subject."

"I suppose I can't."

"You did violate her."

"In the completely English definition, I did."

Geoffrey couldn't face him. "She said she was sorry about it – but she never blamed you. So I know you didn't force her. And I know she can be persuasive." Recalling his own night in the same bed with her, he could not help but smile, if just a little. "I am still so very angry."

"Because you love her. Have you told her?"

"Of course not. I forgave her and that was that. I was not in a position to do otherwise." He sniffled. "Even if she claims she can defend herself and provides ample proof, it is still my duty to protect her, for the rest of my natural life, and into the hereafter if I can manage it. Unfortunately they generally outlive us, but she does believe in reincarnation."

"Beg your pardon?"

"That a soul is reborn in another body." He chuckled. "She won't admit it, but she thinks she's the reborn soul of a Chinese master of the sword."

Audley said, "That would explain a lot."

They laughed. It was only awkward after they'd finished, but it felt good, no matter how sore they both were.

********************************************

George took an early supper in his room, but with the door open. He was still shaking, but he was visibly trying to control it. He apologized for his earlier actions and promised to control himself, but they both acknowledged that he would likely do the same thing later that night or the next day.

Inspector Audley took his leave after George was suitably inebriated and probably harmless for the night. Somehow before George's emergence, Geoffrey and Audley managed to make occasionally stilted but mostly mundane conversation as they tended to each other's wounds and straightened the place up before supper arrived. Georgie was occasionally mentioned, but her past with Audley was not, and that was enough for both of them, too exhausted to feel otherwise.

Despite his earlier proclamations, George happily drank himself to sleep, which didn't require much liquor but served to settle his nerves enough to allow some kind of peace. "Geoffrey."

Geoffrey was turning to leave him for the night when he heard his own name in a slurred voice. "Yes?"

"Did I imagine a rather violent conversation with you and the inspector over Georgie?"

"No," he said firmly. "You did not."

"Oh." George nodded with complete understanding despite his state, and turned his head to the pillow. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, George."

********************************************

The next day was little more of a repeat of the last, in terms of George's condition. He was growing stronger from rest and regular food, but weakened by the pain that wracked his limbs, even if it was only in his mind. Audley was not there this time, when the morning dose wore off and George became violent, but Geoffrey had a burly servant called and together they got him back in his room.

"He's recovering from a medical condition," Geoffrey said, and heavily tipped the servant.

The other highlight of Geoffrey's day was the mail. Georgiana was thrilled to hear that he arrived safely in Paris and had contacted the authorities (she did not mention Audley by name), and wished him best of luck. She promised to explain the situation as he had laid it out several days ago to Isabel best she could.

Audley himself did not make an appearance until the next day, after spending a day straightening the records needed for the case and interviewing the nurse, Marie Pomeroy. He caught George in a moment of lucidity, and told them everything. "She was not forthcoming. It was not in her best interest to be. Of course, her name rarely appears on any particularly damning records. She had Bontecou do everything, and not just because of his sex. Nor did she cry or beg for mercy."

"For a nurse, that's very cold."

"Nurses can be very cold," George said. "Even if they're nuns."

"She was never a nurse," Audley explained. "I can't say she has no experience in medicine, but she never presented any proof of formal training. She's never worked in a hospital or a clinic, or even as an assistant to a physician. She was working as an apothecary when Mr. Bontecou entered the shop, seeking mercury pills for his condition. They became friendly. This was a year ago, when he had some money, and from there she began to care for him – in the physical sense, not the emotional one. She knew very well he was going to die and had no relatives to leave his possessions, few that there were. He was also a talkative drunk, as most men are, and she found out he tutored a rich medical student who was also a bit 'off' - as she put it."

"I trusted him," George said, shaking his head so sadly it was painful to watch. "I don't recall telling him everything, but I've known him for years. I might have hinted at too much. Maybe once when I was drunk..."

"It's not hard to feed paranoia," Audley said. "She did eventually admit to knowing something of your condition, which was enough of a corner for her to put herself in. It means Bontecou must have told her, which means she easily could have told him to start feeding you worries." He flipped through his notes. "She claims she gave you a sedative before the trial. Do you remember it?"

"I will never be able to wipe it from my memory," George said. "Whatever it was, it was not a sedative. I just remember... I went out to meet Pierre at a café, and I had some tea, and after that I became agitated. I must have apologized half a dozen times before I made a fool of myself, yelling at the waiter. The cook called the police, and I went straight before a judge. That night I was tied to a bed in a hospital. When I came out off the drugs they gave me to get me there, I thought a week had passed. I couldn't believe those events all happened the same day."

"Do you remember the name of the café?"

"It's the one down the street from the academy – on the corner. Has a boar's head on the sign. I never learned the name."

Audley wrote it down. "It was probably staged, but I'll look into it, to see if anyone else was involved."

"I don't want anyone else involved. I don't want anyone else to be hurt by this."

"George," Geoffrey said, "these are people who hurt _you_."

"I know, but I don't have to make it worse."

"Justice is not making it worse, Mr. Wickham," Audley said, but his tone was soft. "It's justice. Few people who are harmed ever see it. You may not feel like it, but in a way, you are a very lucky man."

George nodded in acknowledgment but not agreement. Audley promised to return the day after next, or earlier if they needed him.

The next day was easier. George learned to medicate himself with whiskey, and then brandy, or whatever was available. He said the resulting headache was no worse than the pain he already felt, so it was worth it for a few hours of comfort. He still wouldn't win in any contest; a glass could put him right out.

The fourth day was not as bad. George shouted and went back and forth around the main room, but he was not violent. He was better at holding utensils, and he stayed out of his room for hours after the meal, reading by candlelight.

Geoffrey picked his head up at the knocking sound. He had fallen asleep in the armchair. George was asleep on the couch, his book still in his hand. "A minute!" he said, not particularly loud, and straightened his clothing. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Darcy?"

"Yes."

"A Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bellamont to see you, sir."

... Next Chapter - The Rescue Party

P.S. There's an additional scene from the next chapter at my website listed above. Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, and Happy New Year!


	21. The Rescue Party

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Note: I do not know why the forums are reported by some browsers as a "forgery." They are not. Disable that message to read them.

* * *

Chapter 21 – The Rescue Party

Geoffrey was overwhelmed with relief. "Father. Uncle." He barely controlled his excitement as he bowed and they entered. "I'm so glad you've come."

His father looked around the room. "Oh thank G-d." Grégoire crossed himself. "Where did you find him?" he asked in a lowered voice. George was still sleeping.

"In an asylum, under a false name."

"When was this?"

"A few days ago."

Grégoire, who looked remarkably like his nephew when they both had beards, carefully took the book out of George's hand and put a stopper on the bottle. Together with Darcy they moved him into his room without waking him. Geoffrey shut the door. "Thank you. It's so hard for him to get any rest. It's better if it's not disturbed." He couldn't imagine George's shock, but that could wait for the morning. "The, uhm, hospital had him on a regiment of opium. He's being weaned from the addiction and it's been terrible on him."

Darcy looked his son in the eyes, as if probing them for something. His response was not the aggressive voice demanding an explanation of why they had been left to discover the mess themselves. He had not come charging in and he seemed even more reluctant to say anything now. "We came as soon as we heard. Your mother would have come, but I convinced her not to leave Isabel."

"When we left," Grégoire said, "we had news that you were in Paris but nothing further. George was still missing."

Geoffrey gestured for them to sit. He had to set up the drinks himself. "I rarely call for the servants. George barely wants to see me, much less someone he doesn't know." Of course, they did not require further explanation.

"I ordered the room across the hall," his father said.

Geoffrey nodded. It wasn't until he sat himself that he realized how tired he was. He didn't even think to take their coats, but they removed them themselves. He hid his embarrassment behind his glass. "You did get my note?"

"It clarified the situation," Darcy said. Geoffrey left a note with Georgie in case his father or another relative made an appearance, looking for him or George. "Georgiana was relieved that I was satisfied with it."

"Please tell me you were easy on her. It was my decision to keep it private."

"It was not a time to be harsh," his father said.

"How is she?"

"Worried – about George and you. She hoped you weren't in over your head, but it seems you aren't."

"But not ... worried sick?"

His father smirked. "She has some confidence in you. She also admitted to planning your demise if you failed to find him."

"You're being dramatic," Grégoire said. "And she said not to tell him that. You're breaking your promise."

"I never promised," Darcy said.

"It does sound like her," Geoffrey said. "How is Isabel?"

"Very insistent upon her brother's privacy and his health, though the two things seem to be in conflict at the moment. The doctor says that otherwise, she is fine."

"I didn't think it would be good to race him home. He's not in a good condition."

Grégoire just nodded. His father didn't have to.

"The Inspector – the one who helped me find George – will be here tomorrow. He can tell you the latest on the case. Hopefully all that will be required from George is a statement." He had a good sip of brandy before he began his explanation of the events of the last two months as he knew them, starting with the ill Tutor and his feeding George's paranoia, then to the rigged insanity trial, then to the committal and stolen funds. "They only succeeded in getting a thousand pounds from him. Inspector Audley believes part of it may be recovered. Aside from that, in terms of the actual case, George has to decide what charges he wants raised."

"To determine if they live or die."

"Essentially."

Grégoire played with his rosary. Darcy just took a small sip of brandy and set the glass aside. "When do you think he'll be well enough for the journey?"

"Physically or mentally?"

"We can make arrangements so that he is not swarmed by relatives when he returns," his father assured him, "but if you're not inclined to push him, we certainly are not."

"Tomorrow – today, almost – is his last dose of opium. He's still in pain from its removal. Until that ceases I think it's cruel to ask anything of him."

"Were there any other treatments?"

"It was an 'enlightened' institution. The doctor said the treatment was largely observation and forcing him to eat, which did require sedating him." Geoffrey looked down at his glass. "And they put him in a straightjacket and tied him to his bed."

Grégoire crossed himself again.

"Was the judge who ruled for his committal bribed?" his father asked.

"I don't believe so. I spoke with him myself, and he seemed convinced something was 'off' about Mr. Wickham. He appeared that way – George doesn't deny it. He was agitated. It was legal, in that sense only."

"Has he seen anyone since you brought him here?" Grégoire said.

"Only Inspector Audley. He is not inclined to company at the moment. I honestly cannot say if he will initially refuse even yours."

"We are prepared for that," Grégoire said to the sound of the church bells, signaling midnight. "I'd forgotten! How lovely they sound. I loved them."

"This is only the second time you've been in Paris," Darcy said.

"That does not mean they are without meaning." He stood. "I cannot ask anything else of you tonight, Nephew."

"It's so good to see you. Thank you for coming." Geoffrey did not resist being embraced by his uncle. "Maybe he won't say it, but George will be so relieved to see you."

Uncle Grégoire left first. Darcy removed some small letters from his pocket. "From your wife and mother. And possibly some others. I haven't opened them." He handed them over. "Please let me know when George wakes."

"I will. I warn you – "

"How is he?"

It was a question that deserved an honest answer. "Not well. I think he was in a bad patch when this came down, and all of his paranoia – or some of it, at least – was confirmed by reality."

"But he's willing to see you."

"On occasion. I bought him some books. His possessions are still locked up at the University. The Rector didn't know he was missing. He didn't care."

His father put a hand on his shoulder. "But you found him, and better _that_ than some Rector. There is no damage that cannot be repaired?"

"I'm not a physician. At this point, I can't imagine ever wanting to be. Nonetheless, I think he will recover." He added, "Hopefully soon."

His father tightened his grip briefly before releasing. "Goodnight, Son."

"Goodnight, Father."

"Sleep well."

Despite everything, he did.

********************************************

Geoffrey Darcy woke, as usual, when George Wickham wanted him awake. For the second day, George knocked first.

"Come." Geoffrey turned over and opened his eyes. "Don't you look bright and rosy."

"What did I drink last night?" George said. He calmly sat down on the bed, opened the dresser, and removed the last packet of medicine, poured it into the glass he was carrying and filled it with the wine on the bed stand. "It must have been a lot."

"For you it was," Geoffrey said with a yawn. He waited for George to drink, to pace, and finally to settle down in the armchair as it took effect. He did not appear drugged, but he was quite calmer than he had been. "My father and Uncle Grégoire are here."

It had the expected effect. "No! I can't let them see me!"

"They _came_ to see you. Precisely, they came to see if I had found you." He sat up and removed his cap.

"You can't let them see me like this. Please, promise me – "

"They did see you – last night. You were asleep on the couch when they arrived. They carried you to bed." He was prepared for George grabbing him and shaking him. "They're not mad and they're not upset. Just concerned. Have a little faith in your uncles."

"I do have faith," he said, and resumed pacing. "I don't – I didn't want them to see me. I can't fail them."

"I don't understand."

"There's no way for me to explain it, but they can't see me – like I am. I can't bear it."

"You'll have to." He slid out of bed and put on his robe. "They're across the hall. And if you lock yourself in your room, you'll just delay it."

"Why did you wait to tell me this?"

"Because last night you were dead drunk and this morning I wasn't prepared to say half a sentence to you before you had something to calm you down. Have more wine, if you prefer, but they are coming." He handed him the bottle. "And do it outside. I have to get dressed."

He rang for a servant, washed his face, and was dressed for the day. The usual breakfast tray was on the table in the main room, but George was nowhere to be found. The door to his room was open, but it was empty.

"George?" He looked at the door to the washroom, which was closed. "George?" He knocked. "If you don't say anything, I'm coming in."

He just heard something muffled, and decided not to count that. He entered it fortunately not to find George in any state of undress, but huddled on the floor beside the water basin, crying. Before him was a shaving kit and a blanket.

"What is it?" Geoffrey kneeled down. George looked up. Some of his beard was cut away, but it was uneven, the mess fell on the cloth around his neck. "You can tell me."

"I didn't want them to see me like this." He banged his fist against his head. "I can't do it. Not see them – I have to do that. You said I have to do it. I didn't want them to see me like this."

"In case you failed to notice last time you saw him, Uncle Grégoire has a beard. You just need to even it – " But when he reached for the scissors, George screamed, and hid his face. He started sobbing again. It was some time before he was recovered.

"The _knives_," he said. "To cut me."

"Did they bleed you in the hospital?"

George shook his head.

"Did they do anything else, besides drug you?"

"I know it doesn't make sense. I know I'm not making sense. They're scissors. They're mine – yours – I don't know. I don't know where they came from."

"It's the hotel's set. It's perfectly clean."

"I know. I know." But he couldn't stop crying. Since college, no doubt, George had used a straight razor without any trouble. It was not from lack of talent and his hands weren't shaking – not that badly. "I know."

"You don't have to look perfect," he said. "As long as all of your limbs are accounted for, I think they'll be quite happy to see you."

"I know. I know."

"If you don't want anyone else to do it for you, then your Samsonite locks will simply have to wait until you feel ready to remove them." He closed the case. "Did I tell you I once almost refused to let Georgiana shave me while I was incapacitated by my headsickness? No, I suppose I didn't. I was in Japan. She'd never done it before but we had a very official dinner to go to – with the emperor of Japan. I told her I wanted to lose my beard, not my head."

"What did she say to that?"

He stood. "Let us say she was a lot less cordial to me than I am being to you at the moment. Come." He offered a hand, and George got to his feet. "They're not going to be upset with anything you say or do. Besides, I don't think Uncle Grégoire's capable of it."

Darcy and Grégoire were already up, and answered very quickly to his call. George was pacing in the main room when they entered. The look on his face was pure horror, but he did not shy away when Darcy approached him. "Hello, George."

George looked down, wringing his hands. "I didn't want you to see me like this. I wanted to look better. I tried. I know I failed – I know I failed, I couldn't do it – "

When Darcy touched his arms, George just fell into him, burying his face in the shoulder of his uncle's coat. "I'm so sorry." Geoffrey and Grégoire watched as Darcy said nothing, just let George cry until he was ready to stop, and pull away. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry about," Darcy said, not giving him time to respond. "I'm glad to see you. We're all glad to see you."

"I tried – "

"You are not at fault for anything you did or did not do. I know you know it is just in your head."

George nodded.

"You were wronged but you survived, and will recover, and no one will look down on you for it. Not your sister, not Mr. Franklin, certainly not Mrs. Darcy or the Bingleys, if you decide to tell them." He held him up, so he was looking him in the eyes. "No one wishes you anymore harm. It's in your mind."

"I know."

"It's good to see you, George. Despite the circumstances."

Remembering his manners, George bowed. "Uncle Darcy." He stepped aside. "Uncle Grégoire."

"George." Grégoire smiled and warmly embraced his nephew. "I'm so happy to see you."

"Uncle."

To Geoffrey's relief, his father and uncle seemed to know what to say. George was nervous and quiet, so they filled in the holes with the news of his sister's good health. Grégoire was in London for the birth with his family, and decided to accompany his brother to France. As they sat down to eat a proper breakfast together, George forgot that he was afraid his food was poisoned and ate normally, even if he dropped the utensils a few times. George was behind on two month's worth of family events, so there was plenty to talk about.

Audley appeared in the late morning. Geoffrey answered the door and led him in. "Inspector Audley, this is my father, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, and my uncle, Mr. Bellamont."

"Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bellamont. Mr. Wickham."

They rose to greet him. Darcy responded first. "You're English, Inspector?" Audley's British accent was nearly perfect and he had spoken English.

"My father was. He was in the army, but he married French and settled north of here."

Darcy nodded slowly. "Lieutenant Audley?"

"Colonel Audley. My father."

He gestured to the inspector. "You grew up at Rue des Capuchins. It used to be a d'Arcy family holding."

"Yes. I'm told it was."

"We've met," Darcy said. "You were about four when I visited with my wife."

"When was this?" Grégoire asked.

"Shortly before we met. I went to the manor to look for my father's records. They had a son, Robert."

Audley bowed. "Then we have met, Mr. Darcy, though I confess I don't recall the actual event."

"It is a small world."

They were seated. Audley sat across from George, who was on the couch with Geoffrey. George had a chill, or simply the shakes, because he kept a shawl wrapped around him.

"You may be pleased to know that most of the money has been recovered," Audley said, opening his notebook. "Mr. Bontecou gave us access to his account, which he confessed was entirely your money – about 800 pounds out of the thousand. There were also possibly fifty or a hundred pounds worth of jewels discovered in his apartment. He confessed to purchasing them for Mlle Pomeroy. The last hundred pounds is gone – spent over the two months. Obviously the bank is eager to clear up this discrepancy and the money will be back in your account by the end of the week."

George tugged on his sleeve. "What else?"

"I've interviewed Mlle Pomeroy, or Marie, twice now, and she remains evasive, but I do not think she has anything left to reveal that we do not already know. Little remains but for – "

"I know," George said. "What charges is the state going to make?"

"There is a long list, but they all depend on your testimony. For example – did you agree to sign the banking slips, or was it done under duress?"

"They tried to forge it, but they couldn't," he said. "They made me do it. I remember her screaming at me..." He trailed off. "It was under duress. I couldn't think clearly. I may have actually written 'George Bradley' on one of them. Another I tore. Something like that. This was in the hospital."

"That is an example of something that could be brought against them."

George looked down at his hands, rubbed raw, then up at Audley. "I've decided."

"Do you want me to go over the list now?"

"No. I mean – it doesn't matter. I can't do this to Pierre." He raised his hand to the objections from the crowd. "He's dying. Once syphilis goes to the mind – he might not see Christmas. It's a terrible way to die, and he's known that for years. It doesn't make it right, but I can't wish worse on him. So I thought ... could he be committed?"

Audley crossed his arms. "There is a case for it. If a doctor examined him for signs of the disease, he would qualify. But it would cost money to put him away."

"I'll pay," George said with no hesitation. "I'll pay for a year and his burial. It can't be much. A few pounds worth."

"George," Darcy said, "this man stole from you. He treated you like an animal – "

"_He_ never did. And even if he did some terrible things, I don't want to ... to _kill_ him."

"When a man is guilty of a terrible crime," Audley said calmly, "or in this case, many, the state does take action. You are not involved. You merely state the crime and if he is found guilty, the law acts."

"The law is not a living being. Pierre is!"

Darcy turned to Grégoire. "What did you say to him?"

"What? Nothing!"

"Please – let me do this. Let me have it on my consciousness that I did not kill a man," George begged. "I'll pay to have him put away."

"There was some monies found that could not be identified as yours. The state will seize his assets. They could be used for his stay, but they will select the hospital."

"A good one. If they won't pay, I will." He was insistent. There was strength in his voice for once. "This is what I want."

"What of Mrs. Pomeroy? She will be charged separately, but the evidence will be the same."

"If I accuse her of everything – what then?"

Audley sighed. "I believe you know, Mr. Wickham. There are a great number of crimes against your person. She did everything short of killing you to get your money, and she nearly did the same to Mr. Bontecou."

George nodded. "What about the bank fraud?"

"What about it?"

"What if we say ... that she made me sign the slips under duress, and nothing else?"

"And she agreed to this story? She would probably get away with prison. A good number of years, surely – possibly life. This is a theft against the banking system."

"That's what she would get?"

"I cannot say for sure, but that is most likely. No, she would not go to the guillotine unless you went before the judge and were particularly vicious in your testimony."

"And all of the other things – they didn't happen. To save her life."

"I suppose you have the right not to seek justice, and no one else was harmed in this, excluding Mr. Bontecou and the bank. I cannot, as a member of the police, recommend it."

Darcy rubbed his chin. "There's reason for it."

They turned to him.

"The court and hospital records say that a George Bradley was declared insane and committed to an asylum, do they not?"

"They do."

"And the University of France is not currently aware that he ever spent time in an asylum?"

"They have not been officially informed."

Darcy nodded. "Assuming he finishes out his education in Edinburgh or some other medical school, my nephew could be up for a doctor's license in as little as six months. From our friend Sir Daniel's accounts, it is no little thing to have the approval of the Royal Society of Physicians, even if Sir Daniel himself is on the board. I think it would be preferable if there were no records in France or elsewhere that a Mr. _Wickham_ went before any judge or spent any time in an asylum. Mr. George _Bradley_, on the other hand, is a non-entity who does not need to prove his intelligent and sound mind to a very particular board of physicians."

George looked to his Uncle Darcy, then to Audley, who was silent as he considered it.

"It would be an _injustice_," Grégoire said, "if George could not pursue a medical career because of a plot against his money."

"Mr. Wickham," Audley said, "is this really what you want? The crimes against you were heinous."

"Killing two people, one of whom was once my friend, will not give me any comfort," George said.

"I have to consider the logistics. You can have a day to think on it before giving me your final answer, Mr. Wickham." He rose. "I also have the University form for you, for when you wish to collect your things there, in case you want someone else to do it for you. I picked it up while I was there last." He removed a sheet of paper and handed it to George. "With your signature, arrangements can be made for all of your belongings to be returned to England without you having to visit the campus again, if you so choose."

"Thank you."

"It's my job, Mr. Wickham. There is no need." He produced his card and gave it to Darcy. "Mr. Geoffrey has one, but you may want it as well, if you wish to contact me about anything. I will be by tomorrow, to see if Mr. Wickham is ready to give a statement."

"You really didn't say anything to him?" Darcy said to Grégoire.

"When could I have? You've been here the whole time."

"You're not opposed?" George said to Darcy. "Not for the reasons of my own good name – the real reasons. What was done to me."

"I would be harsher on them," Darcy said, "but I'm not you."

Geoffrey leaned in. "You always taught me that compassion was an admirable quality."

"In a _landlord_."

"Are you saying you are not compassionate to other people?"

Darcy rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. I might have said that." He looked at his brother. "I still blame you."

Grégoire put his hands up. "I've done nothing!"

Geoffrey laughed. "If someone acts in a truly pious manner, they're going to blame you as an influence. Is that such a terrible thing, Uncle?"

"It is when Darcy stares at me like that."

... Next Chapter - The Beast of Gévaudan


	22. The Beast of Gévaudan

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Note: I do not know why the forums are reported by some browsers as a "forgery." They are not. Disable that message to read them.

* * *

Chapter 22 - The Beast of Gévaudan

The day passed quickly. There were letters to write home, arrangements to be made, and more discussions of the case as Geoffrey and Darcy knew it. George sat with Grégoire, then retreated to his room, and Grégoire went to church. They were all tired for different reasons, and an early supper and bed was called for.

In the morning Geoffrey rose instinctively at dawn, then remembered that he was out of medicine for George, who was not hovering over him. It was a much nicer way to wake. He rang for the servant, was dressed, shaved, and prepared for the day. Only encountering his father alone in the main room did he remember he'd given them a spare key to his rooms. "Father."

"Geoffrey." His father set the newspaper down as he was seated next to him. "How are you?"

"Fine," he said as the servant brought him a fresh cup of coffee. "Has George been heard from?"

"No, not yet. Your uncle is at Mass."

"This is George's first day without any medicine."

"It's difficult, but it can be done," his father said. "Dr. Maddox once freed himself of the habit."

"Dr. Maddox?"

"This will be between us, but yes, he confessed that to me when we were in Austria together and out of ways to pass the time. He was an opium addict in University, but he had to quit while home for Christmas. Mr. Maddox thought him deathly ill, but it was really just the shakes. Since then, he's been reluctant to ever touch the stuff for his own use, even when he's needed it for legitimate medical reasons." He added. "It shows a certain strength of character."

He could not imagine it. _Dr. Maddox?_ But his father never lied, so he didn't question it. "I suppose it does." How would this experience harden George? That assumed he fully recovered at all, but his father didn't seem overly concerned with that.

"What are your plans for the day?"

"I hadn't thought of it." He'd been trapped in the hotel since George was recovered. Now that someone else could watch him...

His father looked straight at him. "Take the day and do something fun. See Paris – the good parts of it. Buy my granddaughter something. Buy your wife something, if you know what's good for you. You deserve it. You need it."

"But George – "

Darcy put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed, "Geoffrey, I love George like a son and I'll always try to be there for him, but you're _my son_. I won't have you suffer as well." He released him and smiled. "Go."

"I promise," Geoffrey said, and continued his breakfast.

********************************************

Shortly afterwards, George quietly joined them. He was still shaking, but he managed a wane smile before eating his breakfast. Seeing he was well, Geoffrey put his hat on and took his leave.

The first breath of not-so-fresh Parisian air seemed to elevate a weight from his shoulders he had not otherwise known about. It was hot, but not too hot, and the hotel was in the center of Paris, not far from all of the sites he'd read about but never seen. His only trips to the Continent were stops for supplies on the way to Japan and back. Granted, he was doing this trip alone while his wife sat at home, pregnant and worrying for him, but he was in Paris all the same.

Alison was easy to shop for. She would want anything he bought for her. His wife would graciously accept anything, but he knew he had to impress her.

He spent half his time in the shops. All of the Oriental items were fake; she had all the clothing she could need and didn't care much for jewelry, and Pemberley's library was extensive. As much as he wanted to buy a gown for the baby, if there was some disaster, it would just be a torment of a gift. With that grim thought in mind he turned back to the books, searching furiously for a title he did not recognize.

"Looking for something, Monsieur?"

"Yes," he said to the shopkeeper. "For my wife. Unfortunately she's well-read."

"Does she read French?"

"She does. And Italian. And Latin. And Japanese."

The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows. "She must be well-read. So, what does she like? We have many new women's novels..."

"She doesn't like women's novels. Something... more violent. Adventure, I mean."

"Adventure stories are over here, Monsieur. Let me show you – this shelf."

Geoffrey ran this thumb along the spines, not recognizing any of the titles. Most of them seemed to involve evil counts or people's diaries. He stopped at one, and pulled it out. "What's this?"

"_The Beast of Gévaudan_. Named after the famous French legend of a giant wolf. Someone wrote a story of it. It was very popular at one point."

Geoffrey opened the cover. The first page was in French, and beneath the title was a creature that resembled more of a demonic dog than a wolf. "I'll take it."

********************************************

When he returned mid-afternoon, Geoffrey was informed that he had just missed Inspector Audley, who would return tomorrow for Geoffrey's statement. George was in his room, and Grégoire was just leaving it. "He'd like to see you, I think."

"You think?"

"He didn't say as much, but go to him anyway."

Geoffrey nodded and knocked on the door. "George?"

"Come."

He entered, and at George's gesture, closed the door behind him. George was on his bed, his body all scrunched up against the corner of the wall, as if he was trying to disappear into it. "Hello." He wasn't shaking, but that didn't mean he looked well.

"How do you feel?"

"I should be so grateful. So much better. There's pain – it's still painful, but it's better." He smiled sadly. "I should be so much better."

"George, no one expects you to recover in six days."

"I know how long it takes to quit. I was going to be a doctor."

"You're still going to be a doctor. It's not as if they drugged all of your studies out of your head. You still know everything you knew two months ago, which makes you a very good candidate for a doctor's license, or so Dr. Maddox keeps insisting."

"Who would want a doctor who needs one himself?"

"Anyone, I suppose, if he does the job." Seeing that would not comfort him, Geoffrey settled into the chair and poured himself some of George's whiskey. "This will pass."

"I've never been well – "

"You've been well. And you've been sick, but you always got better. _Always_."

George didn't know what to do with his hands. He had so much nervous energy; it was visible even without him shaking. "Don't lie to me. I'll never be... a whole person."

"Define."

"What?"

"Define for me what a 'whole person' is. And try to do it so that it actually includes half the people you know – myself and my wife included. Especially my wife."

George stammered, and finally said nothing.

"You're a good person, and when horrible things that would drive any man mad don't happen to you, you're a sane person. We all looked up to you as children. You were the smart one. The knowledgeable one. You were more mature than any of us and we all resented the fact that we had to respect you for it. Children do things like that. I think we do it even as adults, on occasion."

The response was slow in coming, but Geoffrey had nothing on his schedule and gave him time. "I told the inspector... you know, the shortened version. To protect them. I want to sleep at night. Do you think I did the right thing?"

"You let them off easy by sparing their lives, yes, according to the law. But as I've been told by every lawyer, barrister, and future judge I ever met at Cambridge, the law is an arse," he said. "You did something better than I would have done. I'm a far more vengeful person."

"I wouldn't say that."

"You didn't go with us to Japan, and see me make a fool of myself trying to avenge my wife when she didn't need avenging. I tried to punch one of the best fighters in the world. Didn't even get close."

"What did he do?"

"He took away my pistol and then yelled at me. It was very effective." He snickered at the memory. When he looked up, George was smiling, if uneasily. "Yes, I think you did the most moral, pious, compassionate thing you could have done. I suppose that is the right thing. It must be. Uncle Grégoire is proud of you. I've no doubt of that. My father is proud of you."

"You think so?"

"I don't think he's ever _not_ been," he said. His stomach growled. He opened the door, to find the main room empty. "Speaking of, where is he?"

********************************************

Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy finished lighting his candles. There were only a few left unlit on the racks, and they were all behind others, so he had to use a longer candle to reach the others. He looked up at the altar and the painting of the Virgin, and crossed himself before stepping away. His brother was waiting in the pews, gazing at all of the gothic majesty that was before him. Grégoire slid in next to him.

"Who do you light for?"

"People I've lost. Our father. My mother. Caitlin's first child. Our brother Wickham." He turned to Darcy. "You didn't think they were just more atmosphere?"

"I am a bit more knowledgeable about Papist rituals, thank you very much." They sat in silence for a short while, each man lost in his own thoughts, though much of them were likely similar. "Did you light for Uncle Gregory?"

"Yes."

"If I ask a question, will you answer me honestly?"

"Do I ever do otherwise?"

"You needn't be smart about it," Darcy said, looking straight forward, and not at Grégoire. "I thanked G-d that none of my children ever developed as George and I did."

"That's not so terrible."

"Have you ever thought that of Patrick? Compared him to George, and say, 'Thank goodness that my son was passed over.'"

"Maybe... sometimes. But it is not as if one spares the other. That is not my understanding of hereditary diseases." He sighed. "I do find myself lapsing into it, yes."

"A side effect of fatherhood, no doubt."

"Yes."

"Do you think it really does something, when someone like me – someone not so saintly – prays? Just an ordinary person?"

"You forget, I am just an ordinary person."

Darcy looked at him. "You know what I mean."

"And I stand by my words. Nonetheless, you are a religious man in your own way, are you not? You adhere to all the precepts of your heretical religion founded by an excommunicated king?"

"Yes, but that is not the matter at hand."

Grégoire smiled. "Do prayers mean anything? It is hard to watch someone suffer and say that they do. I suppose they might not, but then we have lost nothing – yet if they do, if we stop, we lose everything."

"Hedging our bets. Very rational. Very English."

"_It is no such thing!_" Grégoire said in French, and Darcy chuckled.

********************************************

Some things could not be wished away. They could not be prayed away, forgotten, or ignored. They could be drowned by liquor, but that sort of relief had its own consequences.

George Wickham knew all about it. He knew every detail there was to know about the negative effects of anything that might help quiet his mind. He now knew more than he ever had wanted to know about the withdrawal symptoms of an opium addiction. He craved it and yet, at the same time, could not imagine willingly indulging in it again. All of his medicine came at such a terrible price.

So he was alone, either when he was too tired of human company, or when it was simply the middle of the night and he couldn't sleep. It was not clear, distinct voices in his head. Those perhaps he could dismiss as not his own. Ideas persisted in presenting themselves as fully rational. For years he'd honed his abilities to think around them. _This is not logical. This is not right. It's just in my head_. Now, after two months left alone with them (and some of his fears confirmed – people _were_ plotting against him), the only thing he was sure of was that he had lost his ability to reason. It went away and couldn't be so easily recalled.

He looked at the whiskey bottle. _Think, Wickham. It came sealed from the shop. You saw Geoffrey open it yourself. You've been drinking from it for days. And why would Geoffrey poison you? Not that alcohol isn't a poison in its own way – but not that kind!_

His other option was to visit an apothecary, and buy one of their many sleeping draughts. With his expertise, he could find one that might work. _Are you insane?_ Or he could maybe get the ingredients, ground them up himself. _But why would he sell you the right ingredients?_

_Why wouldn't he?_ He had to force himself to say it. He had to counter everything. It was the only way to get better, but it was exhausting. _Stop playing with your hands_. They were raw and they throbbed. _Stop acting like a madman or they'll send you back to the hospital_.

_They would never do that_.

_If they thought it was best for you, they would. They wouldn't hesitate. And Uncle Darcy always knows what's best_.

_No, Uncle Darcy wouldn't do something so terrible. But he would if it was best, wouldn't he?_ They were contradictory statements. Uncle Darcy wanted him to be a doctor, but if it was _best for him_, they would send him away, maybe to a place on a little island...

_Stop thinking like that!_ He punched the wall, and cried out. When he pulled back, his knuckles were bleeding. _Idiot_. _Now it's going to get infected, and they're going to cut it off to save your arm_. He knew what a bone saw was. He'd seen one. He'd even used one, in practice at the clinics. The first time was on a dead body, the second a living patient, an injured sailor. _He lived, didn't he?_ He was fairly sure he lived. _So why are you crying?_

"George?" It was Geoffrey. Geoffrey came right into his room. He must have heard him. He didn't remember giving Geoffrey permission to do that, but he didn't have it in him to call him out. "What is it?"

George had no dignified response. Geoffrey used his candlestick to light the candles on the bed stand, and inspected the bleeding hand. "At least you take your own advice."

"What?"

"Punch with your knuckles. Not your fingers." Geoffrey smiled. He didn't ask why it had happened. He just brought a cloth and wet it with the whiskey. "You said alcohol is cleaner than water, right?"

"Yes."

Geoffrey wrapped the cloth around George's knuckles while he shamefully sat still; _he_ was supposed to be the doctor. He wanted to help people. He liked studying. He didn't want anyone to suffer. Geoffrey had studied Classics and drinking for three years, and he was the surgeon now. "I didn't mean to do it." That was his only defense.

"I know." _Geoffrey knew I was crazy. He just never said it. He was so kind that way, like his father._ "Do you need anything else?"

"No."

"It may not seem that way, but you look so much better than you were a few days ago."

George didn't feel that way. Maybe he'd lost perspective. He wouldn't put it beyond himself. That would be downright foolish. "Yes." _I don't know what to say. G-d, am I to be reduced to a mumbling idiot as well?_ "Thank you."

"Try not to hit any more walls. We have to leave the rooms in somewhat decent shape."

"The coffee table – that wasn't me. I swear it. I don't know – maybe I don't remember – "

"No, that was me."

"In the fight you never had with the inspector?"

"Yes," Geoffrey said with a blush. "In the fight I never had with the inspector."

... Next Chapter - Pierre Bontecou


	23. Pierre Bontecou

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Note: I do not know why the forums are reported by some browsers as a "forgery." They are not. Disable that message to read them.

* * *

Chapter 23 – Pierre Bontecou

Geoffrey did not notice how wonderful it was to relax until it happened naturally. Despite locating George and bringing him back from the abyss of addiction, he was still moving about with all of the exhausting seriousness until his father appeared, and even then, there was a natural reluctance to slow down. He knew George needed him, and he felt like there was always more he should be doing, but he was watching his father and Uncle Grégoire actively doing it, and it was a relief.

His father was honest with him: They did not expect a fast recovery. George's mind would calm at its own speed, and now he had nothing pressing to stand in the way of him doing it. He would not return to the University. He did not even believe he could resume his academic career at St. Andrews the following fall, but that would come in time, his father said.

"After Austria," Uncle Grégoire said, when Darcy was in the other room, "it took your father some time to heal. Months. And then, we didn't understand."

One thing that was agreed upon was that he would be better in England – it was just impossible to convince George of that. Even reminding him of his sister's confinement (as if he could have forgotten) could not relieve him of his very real fears of confrontation with the family at large. On this Geoffrey could empathize; no one wanted to be the center of attention for a _bad_ reason. They were all very reassuring that he would not be mobbed, but he didn't seem to hear.

There was other work to be done. Geoffrey was amazed at how proficient his father was in wrapping up George's affairs in France: having his dorm opened and his possessions packaged to be shipped home, withdrawing him from the record for the semester. He would complete his education elsewhere; this was not uncommon and the Rector said nothing, and they told him nothing in return. Darcy had access to George's accounts, and inspected the paperwork as the stolen money was returned. The jewels were sent in a package from the police station. It contained diamond necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. George smiled sadly but said nothing, and simply closed the box and put it aside.

He made his first trip out to see a judge and give a statement. No one else was present, save Inspector Audley, Geoffrey, and his father. Visibly terrified, George nonetheless made it through the procedure and the charges were filed. The evidence was already arranged and presented by Audley, so there was little for George to do but affirm what the judge already knew.

Despite all the time Darcy spent with Audley, going over the specifics of how the case would be wrapped up, Audley remained at a distance, always maintaining a professional veneer. "He wants to reward me," Audley said to Geoffrey when they had a moment alone, on the way back from the courtroom. "Not that it makes me think less of him. I know it from a bribe, but that changes nothing."

"He's grateful. We all are."

"I'm only doing my job."

Geoffrey stopped. "Do you want to grab something?"

"I won't let you pick up the tab."

"Fine. You pick it up, then," Geoffrey said, and waved to his father and George before turning away, ignoring Audley's expression.

********************************************

They found a tavern not far from the hotel – nowhere Geoffrey's father would eat at, but Geoffrey wasn't in the mood for eating. He was in the mood for drinking, and Audley knew his wines. "Frenchmen."

"That's not an insult. I refuse to take it as one."

"You refuse to take a lot of things."

"As in?"

"Credit for a job well done."

"Have you seen your cousin?"

"He's back to just being George in a very bad condition," Geoffrey said. "Much better than when we found him. And I wouldn't have found him without you. And you wouldn't have taken a missing persons case if not... well, you know."

"That's not true."

"Be serious. How many missing Englishmen are there in France at the moment, because they've drunk themselves into a gutter or are hiding from some creditor? Are they your greatest concern?"

Audley poured himself another glass. "Usually their family doesn't come to me."

"They wouldn't know to."

"Do you want me to admit it? Would that make you feel better or worse?"

"I'm sorry for striking you," Geoffrey said. It came out of his mouth before it was even fully formed in his thoughts as a possible turn to the conversation. "I wanted to do it and I did it and it doesn't keep me up at night, but it was a childish thing to do." He looked down. "I've never been able to discuss it because there's only been Georgiana, and she's my wife. You don't say such things to your wife."

"Some men do."

"Not good men. Not good husbands," he said. "It doesn't matter that Georgie is a woman who would strike me back or not. There are things you do not say to your wife. Or your fiancée, as it was at the time."

"I have no experience on the subject."

"You have an intended."

"My father will cut me off."

Geoffrey's response was silence.

"He's not a cruel man, but he expects more from me than a woman with Cécile's past. For all of the things I've done that he has supported, I don't want to disappoint. That and there is the small matter of the fact that I've not yet inherited a single franc, and I don't wish his death on him just because of it."

"For G-d's sake, take a bribe once in a while! Or a payment, at least, for services rendered."

"The state pays me."

"Not well."

"Perhaps not by your standards, but it does."

Geoffrey scoffed. "I never thought I, as a Darcy, would say this, but your nobility will get you nowhere."

"You did hit a police officer."

"I defended my wife's honor. No one would rightfully fault me for that, however long ago it was or how extreme my reaction may have been." He emptied his glass again. "Do you still love her?"

Audley seemed remarkably surprised. Surely he expected the question eventually? "I would be lying if I said I didn't, at least a small part of me. There, you have your dreaded answer. A part of me will always love her. You cannot ask me to forget that spring, nor would I indulge you." He looked back at Geoffrey. "Do you love her? No, I suppose it's foolish to even ask. You would have to love a woman like Georgiana to marry her." He sighed. "Is she happy?"

Geoffrey was too tipsy to be anything but honest. "Yes, but that is not to say being a wife and mother has not been hard on her, and that on some level I inflicted that harm. That's the most painful thing of it all." He shook his head. "We were married very young. Maybe not in years, but we were young. We thought we would be happy, and together, we could achieve anything. We did not accept our own limitations."

"You were young."

"I was one and twenty. I was almost done with school, I had killed a man to save her life and still am crippled from it. I thought I was ready for anything."

"You were young."

"Yes. Nonetheless, I wouldn't try to change it. I'm not about to tempt fate with the wonderful things I _do_ have." He reached into his coat pocket, and removed a letter. "I know you said you will not accept compensation, so think of it as something else."

Audley picked up the letter and opened it. The seal was already broken. Geoffrey knew what it said.

_Dear Geoffrey Darcy, of Pemberley, Derbyshire, Lancashire, and Imbe,_

_Our thoughts are with you even if our persons are not. Alison wants you here to sing her to sleep, (what's this nonsense about? You never did before) but no doubt will forget her disappointment in your disappearance within five minutes of your return. _

_There is no fresh news to report from England. All is well, and we at last have news from you of your investigations. Thank you for seeking out Inspector Audley. I am sure he will be of great use. He has a tremendous mind for his work and I know of no better person in France to find someone lost. This is all for George that I ask this thing of you, which I know does not come easy to you, but George should not suffer because of my doing. I hope you will understand. I am fairly sure you shall._

_Yours,_

_Georgiana Darcy_

Geoffrey watched the various emotions appear and dissolve on Audley's face, but the inspector said nothing when he was finished. He neatly folded the letter back up and set it down on the table between them.

"I'm very selfish," Geoffrey said. "Past, present, or future, I won't share her with anyone. It is my animal instinct and I've never tamed it."

"Would she say the same of you?"

"No. It would not be a civil conversation so much as a death threat on the other woman – one she fully intended to make good on with her own hands." He grinned despite himself. "And she would do it, too."

"You ought to wear a note on your back then, and protect the female populace that surrounds you."

They laughed, and Geoffrey took the note back. He put it in the pocket of his vest, next to his heart.

********************************************

The next few days showed little improvement for George, who was beyond his physical pains but not the ones that plagued his mind. The trial went on without him, and Mlle Pomeroy was sent back to gaol, to be deported to the French colonies on the next ship. Pierre Bontecou was diagnosed with tertiary syphilis and declared insane – something he did not dispute – and dispatched to the Bicêtre Hospital in the south of Paris, which was famous for its humane treatments of the ill. George took the news in silence. He had to be probed to speak, and all three of them went through great lengths to engage him in conversation, but he preferred to listen or read. To watch his retreat inside himself was agonizing when Geoffrey recognized it for what it was, if only because it was so silently done and so resistant to their attempts to prevent it. Geoffrey looked to his father. Fitzwilliam Darcy was watching George with knowing eyes, but he did not despair.

Instead, he was reassuring. "We will not abandon him, and he will recover."

"Perhaps he should see his sister."

They had no news of a birth, so she was still in confinement. "There is not much left to be done here. I think it is possible to convince him to leave." Meaning, Darcy would not be dragging his nephew onto the ship.

George finally accepted one important thing – a shave, by the careful hands of the similarly-hairy Grégoire Bellamont. "I shaved the heads and faces of my brothers as a monk," he said. For all of his fears, George could not truly think ill of his Uncle Grégoire. He asked the others to leave, and the Darcys stood on the other side of the door and waited. It took what seemed like an unordinary amount of time before Grégoire emerged, followed by a clean-shaven, red-eyed George Wickham. His hair was also trimmed, and aside from some lost weight, he looked himself again, even if he did not acknowledge it and quietly dismissed their compliments with embarrassment.

"Are there things you want to do in Paris, before we leave?"

"Yes, but don't tell Uncle Darcy," he said to Geoffrey. "If I just ask to go out, will you take me?"

"You're a free man, George."

They both knew he wasn't capable of going out on his own; he needed the presumed protection of a relative. He wouldn't even be alone with a servant. Geoffrey kept his promise, and did not ask their destination to impart it to his father or uncle before they left. He called for a carriage, but George was the one who spoke to the driver. "Le Kremlin-Bicêtre."

"_Oui, Monsieur_."

Geoffrey wasn't familiar with the geography of Paris, but the name seemed familiar. It was a relatively short ride south before they pulled up in front of the asylum.

"George." Geoffrey grabbed his arm for emphasis. "You don't have to subject yourself to this."

"He was my friend. How many people can I say that of, who are not my relations?" For once, George seemed resolved. Nervous, but resolved. His mission must have given him fortitude.

It was not a terrible place. It was clean and well-staffed. There was a garden, and patients were at work on the soil, enjoying the summer sunlight. The nurse led them to a private room, and George looked at Geoffrey. "Don't leave me."

Geoffrey would have thought to do otherwise, if this was another time and place, but it wasn't. "I won't."

They entered after the nurse. It was a simple room – a cot, a dresser, and a rocking chair. Pierre Bontecou sat in it, positioned so he had a view of the garden. He clung to his afghan, shivering and pale. Their approach frightened him, distracting him from his suffering. "George." He tried to stand, but the nurse caught him when he fell back down. "Oh G-d. George. I'm so sorry. I don't mean – I didn't mean – I don't know what I'm doing here." He did not try to stand again. "I mean, I know, but I thought for sure, they would kill me, I did such terrible things."

"I know," was all George offered. He didn't sound so confident now, faced with his former friend and former enemy.

"I know I shouldn't have listened to Marie, but the treatments weren't working anymore. Tertiary syphilis – too advanced. I didn't want to tell you. You were so kind to send the packets, and it made you feel like you were doing something, even when it was too advanced. I was in so much pain." He shook his head. "I couldn't make decisions. I don't even know why I'm here. I thought they were going to cut off my head."

From the agony he was in, Geoffrey supposed it might have been a more merciful death.

"I didn't charge you," George said.

"What? Why? What in G-d's name – "

"We were friends." His voice was calm, with an undertone of sadness. "Good ones."

"I thought you'd forgotten."

"I have a long memory. And besides, I wouldn't wish your condition on my worst enemy." He sighed. "Goodbye, Pierre."

"I'm so sorry. I couldn't – I couldn't think of anything else. A way out it. I kept running from my fate. I just wanted a moment's peace – "

"I know."

Pierre looked up at George, tears in his eyes. "Goodbye, George."

George Wickham managed a little smile, and they made their exit. They were silent on the way out, not wishing to disturb the other patients or their own thoughts.

"He was a good man. He would have been a great one, if not for his illness, and Mlle Pomeroy poisoning his damaged mind. I might be a weak man for it, but I can't bring myself to hate him."

"You're not a weak man, then," Geoffrey said. "I would say the opposite."

********************************************

Three days later they were packed and ready. Mr. Darcy and Grégoire would stay an additional few days, to clear up the last odds-and-ends of the case and make sure that George's record at the University was clean. He was a bright student, but he needed to finish his degree before applying for a license. He could do it elsewhere, they told him.

"I sent a note ahead," Darcy said to his son. "George will not be swarmed when he walks in the door. When you reach London, send for Mr. Franklin to pick you up."

"Thank you."

"Assure him of this. He'll be scared."

"I know."

"I would come but... What does it matter? He has you. And soon, he will have his sister, and his family, when he lets them in." He smiled. "And you picked up gifts?"

"I did, Father."

"You were always a fast learner," his father said with a proud smile.

There were many goodbyes to George, who did not look as pleased with the arrangements. Twice he begged for another day, as he had every day prior for days, but the route was set.

Geoffrey was somehow not surprised to see Audley sitting on the bench beside the waiting carriage. "You're sure there's no way to express our thanks?"

"You just did."

"What should I say to my wife?"

Audley shrugged. "After all these years? I don't know. Perhaps... that I wish her well. I would say I hope she is happy, but I suspect she is."

"I'll tell her." They shook. "Goodbye, Inspector."

"Goodbye, Mr. Darcy. And I wish you luck with your family – all of them."

"And yours, should you ever choose to start one."

Audley blushed. "One day."

"I assure you, it takes more than a single day."

... Next Chapter - The Mandolin Player


	24. The Mandolin Player

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

**Series news:** The contracts came back signed for books 2 and 3! They should be out next fall. Brandy and I are working very, very hard to get book 3 in to the publisher (book 2 went in in November, but I didn't want to announce anything until the contract was finished), so my comments on the message board are kind of limited because we're caught up fixing up book 3. Wish us luck!

* * *

Chapter 24 – The Mandolin Player

"Do not make me do this. You're cruel to make me do this."

The smells of London – even the docks – were a welcoming comfort to Geoffrey, but not to George. Still, he did not relent. "Your sister wants to see you."

"I don't want her to see _me_."

"Why? It's not as if you've grown a horn on your head."

George looked down, shamefaced. "I know – I know there's not a good reason, but I'm afraid."

"You needn't be."

"I am. I'm sorry, but it's true. I won't lie. I have that much. I'm not a liar."

"You never were." He offered a smile. "I'll go with you."

This was comfort George accepted. They waited only a short while for the carriage to arrive, bearing only Mr. Franklin. "Mr. Darcy. Mr. Wickham."

They bowed. "Mr. Franklin." Geoffrey spoke first. "How is Mrs. Franklin?"

"Nervous but well. The doctor says it could be any day now." He grinned at George. "You've arrived just in time. She'll be so happy to see you."

George just nodded.

The heat of a late June in London was oppressive, so they made haste back to the Franklin townhouse. George was relieved that Mr. Franklin, without being asked, took him around the back and through the servants' entrance. Isabel Franklin (nee Wickham) could not contain her excitement, and greeted them as they crossed the garden by rushing to embrace her brother. "George!"

It was not hard for him to avoid close contact because her sizable stomach stood in the way. Still he allowed her to touch him, and hold him to the extent to which she could. "Izzy." His voice was soft, but relieved.

"I worried about you. I know you don't like to hear it, but I did, and that's why I sent poor Geoffrey to fetch you and abandon his own wife to do it, and I don't regret it. I missed you so much." She looked up at him. "You look good. I would say you're too pale, but you're always too pale and I would just be repeating myself. And you're too thin. You need a wife. Or at least a good cook. Or a mistress who _can_ cook."

He blushed. "Izzy."

"No more rotten University food for you. I forbid it. We'll have them make you a pudding. I know it isn't Christmas but it's a celebration just to have you home. Oh, pudding! I'm getting hungry already. Hopefully there's some breakfast left. Saul said I decimated it. That's the word he used – _decimated_. Can you believe him? Let's go inside, and see for ourselves."

She tugged him along and Geoffrey shot a look to Mr. Franklin, who just shrugged. In the sitting room, his eye was immediately drawn to his wife, who could hardly be missed in her colorful kimono, which did little to hide but was probably very comfortable for her increasing condition. She was so small and yet so intimidating. "Georgie." He put his hands on her cheeks and kissed her.

"Welcome home." She seemed tired, but she always did when she was pregnant. For him she smiled, then curtseyed to the others. "Mr. Franklin. Mr. Wickham."

George stared before he could collect himself enough to bow. "Mrs. Darcy." He could not be blamed; it was three years now since they laid eyes upon each other, and one looked significantly different, if not in an unexpected way. "How are you?"

"Happy to see you," she said, not a note of it false. "Alison's down for her nap. I ordered more food, as I thought someone else might be hungry. I certainly am."

"Will she remember me? I suppose not."

"Be happy she speaks English."

They all sat down for a luncheon, the four of them. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the house. If not for the food in front of them to busy themselves, it would have been awkward; no one wanted to question George, who was so sedate and uncomfortable, and the women could hardly talk about their conditions in detail.

"Aunt Darcy and Aunt Bellamont are coming for dinner," Isabel announced. "What is the latest from Paris?"

"Father and Uncle Grégoire will be home in a few days at most," Geoffrey said. "My father does like to take care of every last detail."

"Oh! Some of your things arrived," Izzy said to her brother, who sat by her side. "They're in your room, whenever you wish to have them unpacked."

"Thank you." He did not look up, just down at his food. "How is my young cousin?"

"You'll recognize her, but only because you don't have other younger red headed cousins," Georgie said. "She's finally starting to read English. Writing she's not so fond of."

"I remember when I was young," Geoffrey said, "and my hands were so small. I couldn't have realized why it was so hard to hold a pen, but I hated every moment of my writing lessons."

"Then we know where she gets it from."

"I suppose we do."

George smiled, but his eyes remained on this food.

********************************************

"Cousin Wickham!" Alison shouted, because Alison could be excited by any cousin she was informed that she knew. He knelt to her level and accepted her hug, even if her arms barely fit all the way around him.

"_Konnichiwa_, Alison."

"Cousin Wickham, you speak Japanese?"

"Sadly, that is the only word I know." He stood. "You have grown. Not that I doubted it."

Geoffrey grinned. His own response to seeing Alison was far less sedate, but he was her father, and she knew him. "I thought about you every day," she cried in his arms before they took her to meet George. "Did you think about me?"

"Every day," Geoffrey said, and kissed her, carrying her into the sitting room.

George was still quite affectionate, perhaps more than he was for his sister. This was a child. "I bought you something – for your birthday. I don't know where it is in my things. I'll have to find it for you."

"Thank you, Cousin Wickham!"

"How old are you now, Miss Darcy?"

"Four!"

"My goodness. I remember when your mother was your size."

"You _do not_," Georgie said.

"Maybe I do," he said, and nudged Alison back to her parents.

Geoffrey took his daughter's hand. "I've something for you, too. Why don't we go find it?" He didn't want to take up more of George's time. His father was clear not to push him. "George."

"Geoffrey. Georgiana."

Alison beat him to the stairs, and the Darcy family ascended together. Geoffrey's trunk was brought up, and it took Georgie to hold Alison back as it was opened properly and Geoffrey had time to sort through his own clothing to reach the box. "Here we are." He watched Alison untie the ribbon and open it to reveal a doll. It was not the typical English doll, but some kind of gypsy woman playing a mandolin.

"What do we say?" Georgie said.

"_Arigato_, Papa!"

"You're welcome," he replied. Alison sat on the chaise to inspect her new doll, and Georgie wandered to the window of the room. He joined her. They had a view of the garden, where George and Isabel sat on the bench. George was talking, and Isabel was listening. It did not look like an easy conversation, and Geoffrey turned his back on the glass. "He's not well," he said quietly.

"I expected him to be a mess, from the way you described him."

"He was. And is. It's just quieter now. He keeps it inside. If you'd come..."

"It doesn't matter now. You've brought him back. And don't let your father and uncle take all the credit just because they claim to have some understanding of George's condition."

He sighed. "I missed you."

"I would hope so."

Geoffrey reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the other item he found in his trunk. "I thought of you every day. Perhaps _hour_ or _minute_ is more accurate."

It was not in a box. Only a simple ribbon kept the book closed, and the cover revealed nothing. Georgie opened it. "'_The Beast of Gévaudan.'"_

"'Or, the story of the werewolf of France,'" he said, reciting the secondary title for her. "Or so I'm told."

He watched with delight as her eyes lit up and she held her hand over her mouth to hide her little cry before she embraced him. "I love you so much."

"I would hope so."

********************************************

Before dinner, the Franklin house went to sleep – or, most of it did. Some people were tired from their journey, some weakened by their pregnancies, and the master of the house overwhelmed by the whole thing and his own anxieties about impending fatherhood.

Unfortunately for the Darcys, the matter was not so simple. Georgie and Geoffrey lay on the bed in her room, but Alison would not be quieted, and every time Georgie tried to be stern, Geoffrey would counter her. He was in no mood to tell his daughter to leave, no matter how much the rest of his body would have wished it. He lay on the bed, watching his daughter sit in the armchair and go on and on in Japanese about all of the things in Town that her relatives had taken her to see while her mother couldn't leave the house. "Grandmama Darcy says there used to be a big house there, and it was the prettiest house and everyone used to go there, but then the king took it down, even though it was his favorite house."

"Where was this?"

"Carlton House," Georgie mumbled.

"Now they're going to build another house there, but it won't be as pretty. The last king liked to build grand houses."

"Expensive houses," Geoffrey said.

"They should build a park there. We went to the park afterwards and I had ice cream and it was vanilla and raspberry."

"Both?"

"That's what he said. The ice cream man. How does he keep it so cold when it's so hot outside?"

"Ice, Ali-chan."

"How does ice stay cold?"

"I don't know."

"Is it cold in France?"

He yawned. "It's hot, like London. France is not very far away from here."

"But they speak French."

"Yes."

"Do you speak French, Papa?"

"Yes."

"How many languages do you speak?"

"Alison, your father is tired," Georgie said. "He had to come a long way to see you. You can tell him about the park later."

"Sadly, your mother is right. Why don't you show Nurse your new doll?"

Alison eventually relented, and hugged her father once more before leaving them. They did not bother to see where she was going. Geoffrey rolled over to face his wife. "Maybe I shouldn't have sent her away."

"You should rest, before your mother and Aunt Bellamont come to hear all about France. Somehow I think you will be the one called upon to tell them about it."

Geoffrey groaned, and pulled the blanket up over his head.

********************************************

When the doorbell rang, the wave of relief upon seeing his mother – something Geoffrey associated with his childhood more than his adult years – was almost embarrassing, but he embraced her all the same. "Mother." He bowed. "Aunt Bellamont. Georgie's still getting ready. She apologizes." He watched his daughter come down the stairs to greet her grandmother and great-aunt, all dressed up despite only visiting them for a few minutes before the meal. "And look who's here."

"Grandmama!" She came running and buried herself in her grandmother's skirt. Caitlin Bellamont was more plainly dressed. "Aunt Bellamont. Father. Cousin Franklin." She curtseyed as Mr. Franklin entered the room. "Do you want to see my new doll? Papa got it for me. It's French!"

"I would love to," her grandmother said, and they spent some time visiting with Alison before Georgie appeared. Alison was sent up to bed to her great displeasure, and the Wickham siblings entered together, trying to not give the impression that George was being dragged in.

He bowed stiffly to his relatives. "Aunt Darcy. Aunt Bellamont." He was clean-shaven and well-dressed, but looked uncomfortable in his own skin. His hands were behind his back; Geoffrey knew they were shaking.

"George," Mrs. Darcy said sweetly. "We're so relieved to have you home."

"Aye. Yeh luk well."

He just bowed again. He was silent through most of dinner, except when he was directly asked something, so most of the conversation was the usual telling and retelling of current events in the family. With two women in confinement, Emily Maddox engaged (and the date set for the last week of July), and most of the family in London for a change, there was certainly enough going on.

"While you were away, the Maddoxes received a letter from their wayward son," Mrs. Darcy said. "Danny Maddox says he's doing well. He's tracing some pilgrim's path south to some Japanese shrine. He said it was because the roads are easier to manage on foot. Other than that, he had little to report."

"Was Lady Maddox relieved?"

"To the extent that she could be, I suppose."

"Isn't it illegal for foreigners to travel in Japan without a permit?" Isabel asked.

"Yes, but he's managing," was Georgie's answer. "Apparently."

After dinner entertainment was not prolonged. Isabel was already tired, and Aunt Bellamont went aside with George in the library to speak with him. Geoffrey and his mother waited in the drawing room for her turn. "How is he, truly?"

"Better now that he's off the opium, but withdrawn. I don't know what's too much for him." He looked at his mother. "Father says George could attend St. Andrews in the fall. I don't know if he'll be ready."

"Your father wouldn't push George into anything – unless he felt he needed the push. Four months is a long time." She added, "And he's not incapable of making his own decisions. When the time comes, he'll decide, and I daresay that I hope you shall be preoccupied with other things."

He grinned. "How has she been?" He was not referring to Isabel Franklin.

"The doctor says she is doing fine, and she's had the energy to support Isabel, which is a good sign. Alison spent more time bemoaning the loss of your presence than Georgiana did."

"She wouldn't say it out loud."

"Alison is her father's daughter, which I cannot fault her for," she said, a gleam of pride in her eyes. "When your father went to Austria you complained every day that you hated Rosings and wanted to go home. As if I did not have enough to deal with, pregnant with Cassandra and caring for Lady Catherine."

"I don't remember it. I remember the house a bit. And the cat."

"I swear, if Lydia hadn't brought George and Isabel, you would have been borderline intolerable. Not that you were ever _intolerable_."

Being a father himself he could say, "I know what you mean."

********************************************

Geoffrey could not resist the urge to check on George one last time before turning in for the night. Everyone else had long departed, and George retreated to his room. Again, he had pushed his bed into the corner. For whatever reason, it must have made him feel safer. The books from Paris were removed from their trunks and set in piles, almost like thin walls between whoever entered and the privacy of the bed beneath the canopy. "George?"

There was a long silence. "It's not polite."

"What is?"

"To ask you to go away." George put his head down, tearing at his hair. "Please go."

"I'm sorry to intrude."

"No more visitors tomorrow. Please?" He looked up. His eyes were red either from the opened bottle of whiskey on the dresser or his tears. "Please?"

"Of course. I'll tell Mr. Franklin straight away. Good night."

"Good night."

Heaving a sigh of guilt, he left and sought out Mr. Franklin, who was up in his study, looking at a ledger. "How is he?"

"Not well."

"The doctor's due tomorrow to see Izzy, and I believe your sisters want to see you. If he stays in the back of the house, they won't see him."

Geoffrey nodded. "I'll call on my sisters at our house instead. They'll understand." He added, "Thank you for looking after my wife and daughter."

"Mrs. Darcy was of great comfort to my wife, and Alison is a delight. I only wish they were hosted under less trying circumstances."

"I must invite you to Lancashire sometime – if we ever make it back there." It would be well after Georgiana's pregnancy, whatever the outcome. "Please remind me if I forget."

"If I am not preoccupied myself, yes."

They bid each other goodnight, and Geoffrey finally returned to Georgie's room, where she unsuccessfully tried to wait up for him, but instead was sleeping with her book open and the candles still lit. He changed and slipped in beside her, removing the book and waking her with a kiss.

"Hmm – was I asleep?" She scratched her head. "I suppose I was. All I do is sleep. I'm turning into a lazy housewife."

"I would hardly call you _lazy_." He stroked her belly. He thought for a moment he could feel movement, but perhaps it was only her own tension. "I'll go to the house and see my sisters tomorrow, so they don't have to come here."

"How is George?"

He just frowned.

"He's such a good man. I don't know why he was destined to suffer like this."

"You think it destiny?"

"I would rather assign fate to the matter than anything he could be responsible for. He did not bring this upon himself. Without you – I don't know what would have happened."

"He would have been found eventually."

"And in even more pieces," she said, and leaned against him. He forgot what a wonderful weight she was. "We haven't had time to discuss it, but what you did for George was truly exceptional."

"My father would have done the same."

"Your father did not have to contact Inspector Audley."

There was a tightness in his chest, but he would not let it consume him. "He's a good man. And a talented detective."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She was, as of the last six months, given to sudden outbursts of emotion, but this one he was simply not expecting. Nonetheless he was ready, and cradled her in his arms, letting her weep on his shoulder. "Shhh. I know. If it makes you feel better, I got to hit him."

"You didn't!"

"Unfortunately for me, he hit back. In the end it was a draw, some furniture was destroyed, and we were both the better for it." He stroked her hair, so beautiful but usually hidden under some bonnet. _The trials of married life_. "He is engaged. A bit short on money to be married, but my father intends to reward him. He was too noble to accept anything outright, but you know my father. He'll find a way to express our gratitude."

"And how do I express mine?"

"For what I've done?"

"Must the distinction be made?"

He grinned. "I will think of something."

... Next Chapter - The New Landlords


	25. The New Landlords

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

**Series news:** The contracts came back signed for books 2 and 3! They should be out next fall. Brandy and I are working very, very hard to get book 3 in to the publisher (book 2 went in in November, but I didn't want to announce anything until the contract was finished), so my comments on the message board are kind of limited because we're caught up fixing up book 3. Wish us luck!

* * *

Chapter 25 – The New Landlords

George Wickham was fortunate in that he did not have to hold the spotlight for long. The doctor was gone but for a few hours the next day before they called for him again, and Isabel Franklin's labor pains began.

"Really?" Anne Darcy said at the news. Geoffrey and Alison were visiting, and all that concerned Geoffrey at the moment was getting back to his wife. He wasn't eager to have Georgie around for the labor; there was no need to remind her what she would be going through. "Should we go? I suppose Mama will decide."

"You know it's not proper."

"Why isn't it proper? It's a feminine experience. It's far more proper for me to be there than the doctor."

"Because it might put you off marriage and children forever."

"So you're saying that Papa would _want_ me to go." Anne could always make him smile.

"Did you tell him about the lieutenant?"

"He's not a lieutenant; he's a colonel."

"That does not answer the question."

She blushed. "I've danced with him twice. At two _separate_ assemblies."

"Was it a waltz?"

"Geoffrey! You're turning into Papa." She swatted him, and he did not attempt to escape. "Mama knows. Cassie wouldn't quiet herself for a minute."

"I suppose it's all right, then." They walked together into the front hallway, where their mother was waiting with her granddaughter. "Mother." He looked down. "What do you say?"

Alison curtseyed. "Aunt Darcy. Grandmama."

"You don't have to address her; she came in the room with you."

Alison frowned and ran to him, grabbing one of his legs. "_It's so confusing!_"

"_I know. I'm lost myself sometimes_."

"No Japanese!" Anne said. "And don't start about being an accomplished girl. Japanese doesn't count as a language."

"And why ever not?"

"Don't taunt your sister," their mother said. "Anne, if your father arrives, send him straight away."

"Yes, Mama."

They took a gig for the short ride to the Franklin house. Geoffrey bowed as he entered. "Uncle Bradley." He hadn't been expecting him, though it was a foolish notion now that he gave it any thought. Aunt Bradley was Isabel's mother; of course she would be here.

"Mrs. Darcy. Mr. Geoffrey. We've only been here a short while; my wife's just gone up."

"And mine?"

"Georgiana is with George. In the garden, I think."

The ritual began; the men retreated to the study with Mr. Franklin, as far away as possible from Mrs. Franklin's screams. Alison was distracting enough to Saul Franklin that Geoffrey did not need to summon his wife, and went looking for her himself. It was too hot now in the garden, in the heat of late afternoon, and he found her in the sunroom. She hurried to see him before he could even begin his greeting, but otherwise, she was good at hiding that she was spooked.

"Alison's in the study," he said. "George. Did you know your parents are here?"

"There was some confusion. My mother went straight to Isabel and didn't see me at all. Mr. Bradley apologized for her." He didn't look upset, just nervous.

Geoffrey looked at his wife. "What were the Bradleys told?"

"That George was caught up in France. I think your mother said something to them about him being sick, but I wasn't there and I don't know the extent of it. Probably not specifics."

George said nothing, and sat back down. He did not look pleased or displeased; he was unreadable.

"It might be awhile – "

"You don't have to tell _me_ that," Georgie said.

"Do you want to stay here or go to the house?"

"I'm staying with you. And I know _you're_ not going upstairs. Today is not the day to worry about me."

"I always worry about you," was his response.

Geoffrey had forgotten the agony that was the hours passing by with no reports of progress. _Why did women have to suffer so long? Something about the sin of Eve?_ There was plenty to do in the Franklin house; the Bradleys brought all six of their children, who mobbed everyone indiscriminately. At fifteen Julie was the oldest, followed by Brandon at fourteen, and from there Geoffrey wasn't sure of the ages, only that they were all children and had no idea why they were there and where there mother was and why she couldn't come and see them.

After sharing a bottle of wine with Mr. Franklin, a mildly inebriated Geoffrey was called to help get all of the Bradley children to bed, a task that took over an hour. He found the three youngest sitting with George, who was reading them a story. He was almost reluctant to give them up, and they decided to wait until the children were asleep on the sofa before Mr. Bradley carried them to the guest rooms.

"You'll be all right?" Julie Bradley said to George, and he nodded. She must have known something; she grew up with George, to some extent, and her mother was not known for her secrecy.

"Where's my wife?"

"Trying to stay awake in the library with Aunt Bellamont. You might have to drug her. Or let nature take its course and have her pass out in the armchair."

Geoffrey smiled. "Saul's a wreck, but that's to be expected."

"He didn't mind a horde of children."

"He came from a large family."

"Yes. Scarlet fever, wasn't it?"

Geoffrey nodded.

"We should find Patrick. He came with his mother and I haven't seen him since."

"Why? So he can watch us get drunk?"

"I'm not getting drunk."

"The night is young."

They found Patrick with Georgiana in the library. "He's telling me all about Saint Sebastian."

"You're interruptin' de story," Patrick protested. "I wus jist gettin' ter de gran' part."

"The grand part?"

"He's impaled by arrows," Georgie said. "Shot by the Roman army."

"Now I remember. Colorful history, the saints have."

"It seems as if all you had to do in the early church was get killed and it qualified you for sainthood."

"'Tis blasphemy," Patrick scowled.

"And we're all blasphemers. Didn't you know that?" Geoffrey said. "To bed with you."

"Yer not me Ma."

"Do you want me to call for her?"

That was all the incentive Patrick needed to scurry out of the room. Georgie laughed as George and Geoffrey sat down. "He's adorable."

"Yes. I wish I could understand what he says."

"You must understand him some of the time."

"_Most_ of the time, actually. I deserve some credit. Just not all of the time."

********************************************

George's prediction came true; as the hours dragged on, Georgie's resolve withered and she fell asleep where she sat. Geoffrey barely managed to carry her to her bedroom and lay her down with her temporarily increased girth. Flexing his arms, he returned to the study.

Isabel Franklin did not give birth that night, or any part of the morning that could have been considered part of the night. The sun was high in the sky when, nearly twenty hours after her labor began, Mrs. Franklin safely delivered a baby boy. Geoffrey's mother filled him in on the particulars as Mr. Franklin went in to greet his wife and son. The baby was healthy, and Isabel was as well as one would be in her condition.

There were too many people to give the new family much time alone before there were knocks on the door, and a beaming Mr. Franklin presented his son, Edward. The name was decided months before, in secret, and they saw no reason to put it off until the baptism. At first he would not relinquish the baby to anyone, and maneuvered around the prying hands of Master Edward's many relatives to place the boy in George's arms. Stupefied, George Wickham stared at his nephew, who opened his eyes and returned the expression, to the extent that he was capable, of utter incomprehension. Only when the newborn flailed his tiny hand and George caught it with a single finger did he smile, and even begin to laugh. "Hello, Nephew." Edward was not quick to respond. "What, nothing to say to your Uncle Wickham?"

********************************************

"Is he not the most beautiful baby you've ever seen?" Isabel said, when Edward was returned to her. Georgie sat in the chair beside her, watching the infant nurse.

"I will say yes," she answered, "but I will not commit to the truth of it, being a mother myself."

"I thought he would never come. He made me wait."

"We most hope it is not a harbinger of things to come."

They laughed, and Edward did not offer commentary. He had a single wisp of hair – brown, like his father's. His other features were still too unformed to make a judgment.

Not that that would stop Mrs. Bradley. "He looks just like his father. That's for the best, for the first one to look like him. Keep Mr. Franklin happy."

"Mama!"

Georgie withheld comment. She was in too good of a mood and so was Lydia Bradley. Edward fell asleep in his mother's arms, and she cradled him for awhile until they convinced her to let him go, and Georgie put him in his cradle. Exhausted herself, Georgie was thrilled when Isabel gave in to her own desire to nap, and they left her with the attending nurse. She wasn't sure who was even in the house, with all of the comings and goings.

"Mother."

"George."

Georgiana ducked out of the way, back around the corner. She could still hear them, and could even see them a little through the reflection in the window. George's voice was not as stern as it usually was when he spoke to his relatives (especially his mother), but he was calmer than he had been upon arriving.

"How is she?"

"She's fine. It's from my side, you know. The resiliency."

"I didn't know my father could give birth."

Georgie put her hand over her mouth.

"It's not a joke – well, I suppose it is." There was a brief silence before she spoke again, her voice now dropped. "George." She either laughed or sobbed; it was hard to tell. "They didn't tell me everything, but I didn't need the details. I just knew you were in trouble and there was nothing I could do to help you. My baby."

George's voice had genuine surprise. "I'm a grown man. I am – I should be responsible for my own welfare."

"Nonsense. Your father was no good at it and neither is Darcy. You can stand tall all you like with your little Darcy family smirk, but people are always going to worry about you. You're always going to be my baby boy. You saved my life. Did you know that? Is that the one thing I never told you?"

George had no response.

"I was so miserable with your father by then – by the end of my term. I knew it all – the gambling, the drinking, and the name he was making for himself at Newcastle with the shopkeeper's daughters and tavern maids. Then you were born and I held you in my arms like your sister holds Edward and I thought, 'Well, I suppose this was worth something.'"

"Mother – " but whatever else he meant to say, he was too choked up to do it. Georgie saw the reflection of them embracing, and decided to take her leave. She had to go around the front of the building to reach the stairs, and as she descended, the doors swung open and the servants rushed to attend two worn travelers.

Darcy and his brother looked around at the various commotions. Grégoire looked to Georgie. "Mrs. Georgiana. Did we miss something?"

********************************************

Change, inherently, was rejected. It was human nature to resist it, especially when one wasn't informed of why it had happened.

"They didn't speak to anyone," Cécile said as they gazed at the empty window, now stripped of its old curtains, from the sidewalk by their apartment building. "They just left. I wouldn't have noticed it if not for the windows."

"Did you speak to anyone?"

"Everyone knows, but no one knows why," she said, leaning on him. Robert Audley squeezed her hand and they climbed up the front steps. Their landlords were gone, leaving their apartment (the best in the building, of course) empty. "Someone must have bought it."

That was bad. It meant rent would go up – it certainly wouldn't go _down_. Audley could afford it, but he knew there were people in the building who could not. "Paris is Paris. The Eternal City."

"That is Rome, darling."

He grinned and unlocked the door. Cécile had barely set the groceries down when there was a knock. She stepped back into the kitchen as he answered it. "Yes?"

"Robert Audley? I'm from French First National."

"The bank?"

"_Oui_, Monsieur."

He had his pistol on him, so he opened it. The man he faced could only be a banker – he was too well dressed to be anything beneath that. "May I help you?"

"Monsieur Audley." The banker bowed, and introduced himself. Audley let him in, and offered him a glass of wine, which the banker accepted but did not drink from. Instead he focused on opening his satchel and removing several folders of documents.

"Excuse me, Monsieur, but if this is a police matter, it should be brought to the department building, not my private residence."

"It is not, Monsieur Audley. I have been trying to catch you all day, but you have a very busy schedule and I did not want to bother you at work." He opened the top folder and passed him a sheet of paper.

Audley did not recognize it, but it was easy enough to figure out what it was, however archaic the language. "This is a deed."

"Yes. To this apartment complex, and the neighboring one. It was sold privately a few days ago, and the bank was entrusted to see that it was given to you."

"Has someone died? I was not aware I am an heir."

"_Non_, Monsieur Audley. It was sold, as I said, privately, and considering the amount of money the land is worth, our bank was very happy to assist the client in seeing the documents delivered. Congratulations, Monsieur. You are now the owner of Rue 4 and 5."

At work, he was a hard man to shock. He quickly discovered it was not so true of matters of home. "What is the meaning of this? Who was the purchaser? Why was the land on the market?"

"It was not. All I am authorized to tell you was that your former landlord and his wife were approached with an offer, and they accepted. The buyer then gifted the land to you."

"And he was?"

"Anonymous."

He did not need much time. "Darcy."

"I cannot – I am not supposed to – "

"It was Monsieur d'Arcy, wasn't it? Tall man, brown hair, English? Has a French brother with a beard?" He looked up and the banker's face betrayed him. "I cannot accept this."

"Monsieur, you are now the owner of this property. If you do not wish to remain so, the bank would be happy to buy it from you at a reasonable price." He explained the two buildings, and the estimated cost.

Audley gaped. "I was not aware that property in this neighborhood had such great worth. But I suppose I never considered it." The collected rent, in total, was far beyond his yearly income. And to collect it was just a matter of walking around... "I must think it over. Selling it, I mean."

"Of course, Monsieur. These documents were rent collections and other monetary assessments from the previous owners. They are yours now, and they should help you come to a decision about what you want to do with your property." He stood. "Thank you for your time." He took the satchel, but left the documents.

Audley turned as Cécile emerged from the shelter of the kitchen. "What does this mean?"

"The Darcys wanted to reward me for helping Mr. Wickham, but I refused. Now I cannot." Yet he could not gather up much indignation. "If we don't sell, we could collect the rent. It would stay as it was, I think. It would take some of my time to collect it – "

"You are so busy already."

"And there are more shocking things than the wife of a landlord, collecting the rent," he said. To her expression he answered, "Marry me."

"What?"

"We've talked about it, we love each other, we can afford it – _now_ we can afford it. We don't have to wait for my father to die and I don't even want him to in the first place. But I suppose I should be more romantic about it." He dropped to his knee. "Cécile Gaudet, may I request your hand in marriage?"

She grinned. "You can have more than my hand." Nonetheless he kissed it and rose, and she fell screaming with delight into his arms. If their neighbors had any issues with the racket they made that night in their celebration, they said nothing. Even a hardened working man had trouble bringing himself to stifle the laughter of a happy couple.

... Next Chapter - I Have This Friend


	26. I Have This Friend

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

**Series news:** The contracts came back signed for books 2 and 3! They should be out next fall. Brandy and I are working very, very hard to get book 3 in to the publisher (book 2 went in in November, but I didn't want to announce anything until the contract was finished). It just went in to the publisher yesterday, and then the editor at Sourcebooks has to edit it, but the bulk of the work is done!

* * *

Chapter 26 – I Have This Friend

With the successful birth and later, christening of a son to the Franklins, the Darcys finally retreated back to the house. They had never properly set up their own townhouse in London separately from the Darcy house, preferring to spend their time in Lancashire. That home would have to wait, because Georgie was bound to the house and eager to return to Pemberley, where at least the house would be larger and the grounds more private. Her regret was that she could not call on Isabel and see Edward again so easily, and Geoffrey was pleased that they had formed a closer bond during the time he was away. He liked Saul Franklin. He wanted them to be good friends, and for their children to play together. He found his mind wandering to the fields of Pemberley, and the images of children wandering about.

"Geoffrey!"

He looked away from the window. It was not the first time she called his name, he recalled. "Yes?"

"Someone has been knocking for nearly a minute now. Do you care to answer it or shall I?"

She was in a gown for sleeping, even though it was only an afternoon nap. No, he preferred to get it himself. "Sorry." He walked into the sitting area and opened the door a slit. "Sorry, we were resting." Seeing who it was, he said, "Can I not have a moment's peace?"

"Absolutely not," Frederick Maddox said to him. "I'm bored."

"And how did I come to be responsible for the entertainment of a grown man? Who has a wife and son?"

"They're at the park with my parents. If fatherhood means I can never get soused, I'll withdraw my application."

"I think it's a bit late for that." He looked at his watch. It was late afternoon. It was somewhat fair, and he wouldn't lose Frederick so easily. "Georgie, I have to entertain Frederick for a bit."

"Don't take him to White's! He's blackballed."

"I heard that," Frederick said as Geoffrey straightened his vest. Alison was napping, or busy with Nurse. Georgie lodged no major objection and went back to sleep.

They successfully maneuvered their way around his parents and their relatives and were out the door when they saw Patrick Bellamont standing on the bottom step, as if waiting for them. "Wha ye 'eadin'?"

"We're English gentlemen, Master Patrick," Frederick said. "Where do you think we're going?"

"Mass?"

"Try again."

"Da library?"

Frederick turned to Geoffrey. "This poor boy."

"His father was a monk. What do you expect?"

"'ey! I nu 'oy ter 'av craic."

"How about the King's English, Patrick? Heard of it?"

"'e's not me Kin'."

"That's not for you to decide." Frederick patted Patrick on the head. "Come on. We'll let you have a sip."

"No, we won't," Geoffrey scowled. He nodded to the doorman and they walked down to the river before locating the pub Frederick wanted to try, which had seating not far from the water, so they could look over and even toss bits of bread.

Patrick had a sip of Frederick's wine, and spit it out. "'tis so dry!"

"It's a dry wine."

Patrick spit on the sidewalk. Geoffrey laughed. "Perhaps it's better if he doesn't like it."

"What's he now? Eleven?"

"Twelve."

Frederick looked at Patrick. "You going to be a writer like your father?"

"Oi'm gonna be a kin'! Of Ireland!"

"Hey now. Only one of us has that potential."

"They are gonna elect me."

"That's not how it works."

"Don't get him started," Geoffrey said. "Patrick, Frederick doesn't care for politics."

"That I do not," Frederick said, raising his glass.

"Is there anything you do care about?"

"My current sobriety, which is far too high. But I suppose I'm a man now, and not a student or a bachelor. I have a family." He looked at Geoffrey. "Speaking of..."

"I knew it was something. Get to the point already. I don't have all day."

Frederick laughed. "So Mr. Jordan – Emily's intended – doesn't have a lot of money, at least not yet until he gets a research position, and he doesn't have a house in London. I was thinking maybe we would give him our house for their honeymoon, to use as they please."

"And you'll stay at Chesterton?"

"G-d, no! And listen to my mother go on and on about Danny? I can't subject Heather to that. And you'll be in Derbyshire – "

" – so you want to stay at my place in Lancashire," Geoffrey concluded. "It's secluded. Not much to do there, except hunt and fish."

He grinned. "I'm sure we'll find something to do."

"Oh, G-d, now I have it in my head!" Geoffrey gagged. "Fine. You can have the guest wing. And don't ruin the Zen garden."

"The Zen what?"

"The housekeeper will explain." He took another taste of the wine. "Very good, but nothing compares to France."

"How was it?"

"Hot, wet at times. Fantastic food."

"Not the city, you fool."

Frederick poured him another drink, and Geoffrey accepted. He kept an eye on Patrick, who was talking in his incomprehensible brogue to the Irish waiter. "It was complicated."

"Just because I'm not his cousin, you think I care nothing for George? Did I ever say a cross word to him?" He raised his hand. "I mean when he rightfully deserved it. I am the gadfly after all."

"So you did study the Greeks."

"And yes, somehow my spirits-soaked brain has retained some of it."

Geoffrey needed more wine. Fortunately Frederick had good taste. They found a sweeter one for Patrick, who only needed a sip before he decided to run around in place and fall over. Geoffrey shamelessly only laughed before composing himself. "The topic is still very sensitive."

"I heard he was in a madhouse."

"An institution. And not rightfully – his roommate and a nurse conspired against him to have him put away so they could draw from his accounts. If not for George's self-imposed miserly habits, they would have gotten everything."

"And George? I assume he's not well."

Geoffrey just nodded and told the waiter to pick Patrick up and put him in a chair.

"I've no intention of taking you home until you have given me a few specifics." His voice actually sounded serious. Maybe it was the third glass of wine. "I can't rightfully ask George, and I will be the last person to ask Mr. Darcy. Give me something to tell my sister. George and Isabel lived with us at Chesterton. She's concerned."

There were no words he felt served the situation, and yet, he was cornered. "You know what he's like when he's rattled."

"He keeps to himself, but I have some idea."

"Imagine him much worse, and all of his worst fears about humanity confirmed. He's come a long way, but he has far to go."

Frederick was still serious. "If there is anything I can do... I know George has never taken much of a liking to me..."

"You can write him a letter. You did learn to write at some point?"

"At some point." He turned to Patrick, who was staring at the unlit table candle as if it was the only thing that existed in the universe. "What is it, Irish? Can't hold your liquor?"

"Frederick, he's twelve."

"Yeh don't 'av ter defend me," Patrick said to his cousin. "I'll swipe 'imself in de back av de noggin on de way 'um."

"What did he say?"

Geoffrey snickered. "You'll figure it out eventually."

********************************************

After a solid amount of fawning over the new arrival, the Darcys and the Bingleys prepared to leave. They had the wedding at the end of the month in Chesterton, but otherwise they were missing summer in Derbyshire, which was cooler.

The Franklins, minus Edward but including George, saw the many carriages off with a special goodbye to the younger Mrs. Darcy, who was especially anxious to be back in Pemberley. Fortunately the roads were clear, and she did not have to wait but two days to see what she referred to "a much larger and more pleasant gaol" for the next two months. Alison asked what she meant by that, but Geoffrey was sufficient in distracting her. He was eager to be home, too.

Mr. Bennet was there to greet them. "If it isn't my favorite great-granddaughter?" He was hunched over to put so much weight on his cane that she almost reached his shoulders for a real hug. "I hear that you still have a claim to that title."

"Grandpapa," Georgie said, racing to hold back Alison before she toppled him. "You look well."

"As long as I'm still alive and moving, I suppose one could call me well."

"Papa!" Elizabeth said as she kissed her father on the cheek. "Edward is a beautiful boy. The Franklins would so much like for you to see him, as soon as they are able to travel to Derbyshire."

"And how is the new grandmother?" He chuckled. "Lydia, a grandmother. I am not entirely convinced I have not entered some fanciful world that contradicts all known realities and expectations." He nodded to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy. Welcome home."

"Mr. Bennet. You will be pleased to know that Mrs. Bradley is quite pleased with her new status."

"For you to say that, I must assume she was either most dignified or you were most absent from her company."

Darcy didn't blink. "Perhaps both."

The month passed largely without incident. Anne seemed melancholy, but Geoffrey dare not attempt to spy on the cabal that was his three sisters and Eliza Bingley. Instead, he turned to his wife.

"She met someone. A colonel – I forget his name. They met at an assembly, but he was called for a tour in Prussia, and he won't be back in England until the fall."

"Is it serious?"

"How should I know?" She laid down on her side, and Geoffrey climbed onto the bed beside her and put his hand on her belly. Sometimes he could feel it kick, which amused him more than her. "You're not the one trying to sleep like this."

"Good. I've not the fortitude."

"At least you admit it."

A few days before their departure for Chesterton, Geoffrey was fishing with Patrick when he saw someone approaching on the horizon. That blond head could not be missed. "Charles."

"Geoffrey. Master Patrick. Catch anything today?"

"Only vines. We seem exceptionally talented at finding them." Geoffrey looked at the pond, then up at Charles. "Patrick, why don't you head back and show your mother that flower you found?"

"Are yeh sure is not poisonous?"

"Fairly sure." He gave him a reassuring look. When Patrick was gone, Geoffrey set his rod aside. "Well, not entirely sure. If he gets a rash from going through that bush, we'll know."

Charles sat down beside him. "I need your help."

"Why do I suspect I will not like the direction this conversation is about to take?"

"You promised you would help me."

"I suppose I did."

"It's not – it shouldn't be that embarrassing."

"So you say." But it was hard on Charles. He could see it on his face; Charles wore his pain like a mask. "What can I do?"

"Speak to Dr. Maddox."

"On your behalf?"

"On my anonymous behalf. Don't you think I would do it myself otherwise?" He was desperate; he sounded it. "He's the only doctor I trust to give advice. Say it's for a friend from college."

"I doubt he's experienced in that field of medicine. And if he is, it's not as if I want to _know_." Geoffrey put his head in his hands. "Oh G-d. I can't even imagine it."

"Then don't. Just do it. _Please._" He swallowed. "I don't want to be like this, Geoffrey. I don't want to feel this pain. I don't want to hate myself anymore. You will speak to him for me?"

He didn't want to. Every fiber of his being told him that. "Very well."

"At the wedding?"

"I would prefer it not be during the breakfast, and I'm sure the doctor would, too. But yes ... at the wedding."

"I'm indebted to you – more than I can say."

He just answered, "Please don't say it."

********************************************

Missing her son or not, Lady Caroline Maddox was on airs for the arrival of her family and the marriage of her daughter. Henry Jordan was not a distinguished member of English society, but he was the nephew of an earl and he had an advanced degree in the law, and Oxford wanted him as a lecturer already. He seemed intimidated by the crowd – his own roots more humble – but he was a pleasant fellow and he passed both of Emily's parents' strict requirements for the husband to their daughter and future father to their grandchildren.

"He looks the happy groom," Darcy said at the evening meal before the wedding.

Dr. Maddox smiled. "So I'm told." His hands, however, were shaking.

"It's not easy to give up a daughter, Doctor," Bingley said, "but it has a happy outcome. Even Darcy's letting Anne see someone."

"Bingley, don't you dare - "

"Fear not. I will not be the source of discord between you this evening," the doctor said. "Not that you need much of a reason."

The Maddox house in Chesterton was nothing to Pemberley (nothing was), but that did not stop Caroline Maddox from trying. Whereas Pemberley was grand but dignified, and Kirkland was always some weird mix of Asian influences (within acceptable limits), the Chesterton house was fantastically decorated. The style was subtle or ostentatious, as whatever the latest trends demanded, and Sir Daniel indulged his wife in redecorating as she pleased, so that the house rarely passed two years before it was almost a different house than it had been before. For the wedding guests, everyone agreed that she outdid herself, and she was more than happy to hear their compliments, especially if they came from Elizabeth Darcy or Jane Bingley. As for the Maddoxes themselves, they were suited to their surroundings. Brian once asked his brother if he knew how fashionably he was dressed, to which the doctor only shrugged.

The Jordan family, from Sussex, was doing their best to be on good terms with their soon-to-be relatives. Despite everything they were reassured by the unassuming Sir Daniel, under whom Henry had briefly studied before switching to law. As for his wife, she never said a haughty or unkind word to them, and seemed pleased with her daughter's choice. "I shamefully must admit to a soft spot for an academic."

"Since when is it shameful?" Dr. Maddox replied, and she turned to make sure he was smiling, which he was.

"Caroline's outdone herself," Elizabeth whispered to Jane, "but I fear if I say it again, she may have an apoplexy of esteem."

"She's giving her daughter away tomorrow," Jane replied. "I would not trade her gorgeous place for anything in the world."

The person in question was by the side of her intended, introducing him to those relatives that had not met him. "And this is George Wickham, Geoffrey's cousin."

It was obvious who was less at ease, but no one commented on it. Henry had never met him, so had nothing to compare to. "Pleasure to meet you. I understand you studied under Professor Maddox."

"Yes," he said quietly, his hands clenched around the glass full of untouched whiskey.

"I was so happy to hear that you'd come," Emily said. "How is your sister?"

"Quite well. She's already talking of dances, and she isn't yet well enough to travel."

"And Edward?"

"Loud, but he makes up for it by being my nephew."

"So naïve," Frederick said. "Well, cheers to Mrs. Franklin's health. And all those who also could not be here, Mr. Darcy."

Geoffrey did feel Georgiana's absence keenly, not only because it was strange for them all to meet without her, but also because of her increasingly delicate condition. "Though I risk a delicate subject, how is your brother?"

"The last letter came two weeks ago, to congratulate me," Emily said. "Danny's traveling to some province in the north."

"Do you know where?"

"We couldn't begin to pronounce it," Frederick said, "but he says he's well, and Danny's not known to lie. Except, of course, about going to Japan, and then about his return date. Other than _that_ – "

Lady Heather nudged her husband. "Stop it. He's not here to defend himself."

"My dear, I believe that is the point."

********************************************

There simply wasn't time. The Darcys would be departing not long after the wedding breakfast, and that was tomorrow. Geoffrey couldn't delay without an excuse. He had to find Dr. Maddox alone, and preferably when he had a few drinks in him. Fortune was kind to him, because the doctor was spending the latest hours of the night, before he was to give away his daughter, sitting in a chair in his study, facing the moon. Geoffrey wondered if he could feel its light. "Dr. Maddox."

"Geoffrey. What brings you here? With the door closed?"

He did it so quietly, but not enough. "I have a question."

"That I did surmise. If it's medical, I don't know what use I'll be to you, but that will not stop me from trying."

Geoffrey sat down. He had been preparing for this. "It's not for me. It's for a friend."

The doctor just nodded.

"It really is, actually. It's for a college friend."

"That would be a first."

"He asked me because he was ... afraid to ask you himself. Of your approbation. He still wants your advice, if you've any to give. He's been to other doctors – "

"I will not disapprove if you reach the point, Mr. Darcy."

Geoffrey swallowed. "He's a sodomite."

Dr. Maddox's face was a mask. It was easier for him, when no one could see his eyes behind his glasses. Geoffrey had never realized the importance of eyes in expression before. "And?"

"He wants ... you know, to be normal."

"He's not sick with some disease?"

"No. Aside from this one."

"It's not a disease. You can't catch it," he said. "You say he's been to doctors? Did he say what their advice was?"

"He didn't go into specifics, except that a few wanted to do something ... something surgical with his brain."

"Lobotomy. A common treatment. Effective, if you want to be an idiot the rest of your life," he said. "There is no cure. There are no effective treatments. He must know that."

"He still wants to try."

Dr. Maddox sighed. "It's no easy way. It's not my specialty, but that does not mean in my entire professional history, I've never come across a single sodomite." He stood, and made his way to the bookcase, where he felt around until he found a shelf. "May I have some assistance?"

He leapt up. "Of course, Dr. Maddox."

"There is a book somewhere on this shelf. A book of psalms. It should be black. Do you see it?"

He scanned the titles, then pulled out the only one that matched. "Here it is."

Dr. Maddox accepted it, and began to flip through it until he found the place marker. It was a card. "Here we are." He found the hole in the bookshelf and set the book back in its place, then handed Geoffrey the card. "Is the address in Hampshire?"

It was a doctor's card. "Yes."

"Send your friend to him. I'll write ahead, telling him he's coming but that I have no desire to know who this particular friend is." He had a reassuring smile. "He's no lobotomist, I assure you. I can recommend no one else in Britain for this sort of thing with good faith."

He put the card in his vest pocket. It felt heavier than it was, just a slip of paper. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm sorry to put you out."

"Anything to distract me at this hour of this night is hardly putting me out, Mr. Darcy. If anything, it's a gift."

********************************************

The next day, Sir Daniel Maddox – a doctor to some, a professor to others – gave away his only daughter in the local parish church. Emily Maddox was in tears when she kissed her father, but composed herself for the ceremony itself, where she wedded Henry Jordan to the great applause of the crowd.

The wedding reception, like everything else Caroline Maddox planned, was spectacular, and went on for longer than usual because the food was superb and the people most inclined to leave were the couple themselves. Geoffrey was surprised how easy it was to take Charles off in another room. "Here." His hand held the card; his gesture demanded Charles take it himself like plucking a flower, which he promptly did.

"He has Dr. Maddox's recommendation?"

"Would we be doing this if he didn't?" He wanted to be happy to for Charles, who was trying so hard, the pain so obvious on his face. Instead, he couldn't even look his cousin and brother-in-law in the eyes. "Good luck."

"Thank you." He put the card in his pocket, and returned to the reception.

Who was the real coward? In a fleeting moment, Geoffrey wasn't so sure.

... Next Chapter - The Other Heir To Pemberley


	27. The Other Heir to Pemberley

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

**Series news:** The contracts came back signed for books 2 and 3! They should be out next fall. Brandy and I are working very, very hard to get book 3 in to the publisher (book 2 went in in November, but I didn't want to announce anything until the contract was finished). It just went in to the publisher yesterday, and then the editor at Sourcebooks has to edit it, but the bulk of the work is done!

* * *

Chapter 27 – The Other Heir to Pemberley

"Mrs. Darcy, would you like me to ring for more tea?"

In all honesty, Georgiana was more interested in not making another decision than having more tea, however thirsty she was. In the end she muttered an "I suppose" and resumed playing with the remaining food on her plate.

"The mistress of Pemberley ought not to look so dour," Mr. Bennet said.

"The mistress of Pemberley does not care to be called dour, however accurate the proposition may be," she replied, shifting her chair. She could not find her Aunt Darcy's chair comfortable – not while she was so large, certainly.

The former mistress of Pemberley – Lady Georgiana Kincaid – giggled and looked at her husband, who wisely held his tongue. At their end of the table, Robert Kincaid and Patrick Bellamont were fighting over the last muffin, more out of principle than anything else, and not loudly enough for anyone to say something, even their parents. The chair opposite Georgie, where the master of Pemberley sat, was empty in the absence of both Mr. Darcys.

Georgie was debating between the merits of satisfying her hunger by eating or her upset stomach by abstaining, and wondering how the two things could go in congress, when the tea arrived.

"You must drink something," Georgiana Kincaid said with that sweet voice she had. She heard it sometimes in the Darcy sisters, in Anne, certainly, but not all the time. "You're a bit pale."

She moved the conversation away. "Where is Mr. Grégoire?"

"Da chapel," Caitlin said.

"Of course. Why did I ask?" She turned to the butler. "I don't want Mr. Bellamont eating cold food when he comes up. Will you keep a plate aside warm for him?"

"Yes, Mrs. Darcy."

Having made one decision, she decided it was time to take comfort in the tea. They were heavy on the ginger, which she did not prefer but liked the aftereffects. Breakfast was lazy at Pemberley in the absence of most of its normal residents, but it ended with the last round of tea and coffee. She knew she was not a very good hostess. She was moody and tired, and it showed. She was up nearly half the night with the baby's kicking, which was a far more magical experience if Geoffrey was there to remind her that it was. She was an even worse hostess by abandoning her guests and not securing them some entertainment, but she was confident that they would not be bothered by the notion. "Where is my daughter?"

"She is in the Nursery, marm."

The Nursery involved steps. _I am a San Soo master_, she reminded herself. _I'm just in the delicate position of carrying around a kicking child in my belly_. Nonetheless she remained steady on her feet.

Nurse rose to greet her. "Mrs. Darcy. I was just about to set Alison down for a nap."

"I don't want to nap!" Alison shouted. She was sitting on the rug, playing with her dolls. "I'm not tired."

"Address your mother, Miss Darcy."

"Mama, don't make me take a nap!"

She thought maybe she could use one herself. "And why do you find them so detestable?"

"They're boring. I want to play." She looked down at her doll. "Where's Papa?"

"I told you. He's in Chesterton for the wedding."

"Why does he leave you now?"

"He has responsibilities. I would have gone with him if I was not with child." She dismissed the nurse, and sat in the rocking chair. Alison climbed up on her knees, clutching her mother's dress. "I'm sorry I don't have much of a lap at the moment."

"When you're not so big, will you fight again?"

"G-d, I hope so," she answered in Japanese. "Why do you ask?" Alison had never expressed an interest in learning to fight.

"I liked to watch you fight," Alison responded in the same language. "Papa would always frown."

"He was worried about me."

"Why? You _never_ lost."

"I did get hurt, and he didn't want to see that. He doesn't want to see either of us ever get hurt."

"If he doesn't want to _see_, he shouldn't _look_."

She laughed. "If only it was that simple."

"You always say that, but it is."

"I don't always say that. I say other things."

Alison frowned. She could not counter her mother's argument. "Who's Mrs. Bennet?"

"What?" she briefly fell into English. "Your Great-Grandmama. She was Grandmama Darcy and Grandmama Bingley's mother. She died when I was a child. Why do you ask?"

"Grangran always talks about her. He says she wouldn't like things and she would like other things."

"Did he say anything about you?"

"He says she would have liked me very much. He said she would faint if you have a son. Are you trying to have a boy?"

"I'm not _trying_. I don't get to choose." She pulled Alison closer, which all things considered, wasn't that close. "Why do you ask?"

"I want to know if I'll have a brother or a sister."

"I don't know the answer to that question. I can't see inside. I can just feel it." She grimaced against the next kick. Alison had her tiny palm pressed against her belly, but the layers of fabric probably muted it. "We'll find out soon enough. Hopefully."

"Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?"

"I'll take either one. I've no preference."

Alison was quiet, thinking up another thing to say no doubt. Georgie kept one hand around her daughter and let the other fall on her stomach, as if to insist for it to quiet, so she could find some rest.

"I want to name it."

_That_ woke her. "No."

"Mama, please! I'll learn all my letters and I won't spill a drop of ink on my practice sheets – "

"I very much doubt that."

" – and I'll always take a nap when Nurse says so even if I don't want to."

"You cannot bargain with me, Ali-chan," she said in Japanese. "I named you, so it's your father's turn to name the child."

"Then it will be my turn?"

"Maybe." She was too tired. "I don't know. What would you name it anyway? Mugen?"

"Will you read the letter?"

She groaned. "You have plenty of storybooks that are far more entertaining."

"Letter!"

Seeing an uphill battle before her, she said, "Get it for me."

Mugen's latest letter was addressed to Georgie, but it was in the Nursery for convenience's sake. Alison handled it with greater care than she handled anything else, carrying it to her mother like a sacrificial offering, and then climbing back up into the chair. It was a tight squeeze, but she made it.

"'To Jorgi-chan,'" Georgie began.

_I have your letter. Good to know you are having with child and Jeffrey good for something. Remember, pain make you stronger. Island women, they always scream and scare me little. I am glad I am no woman. You tell Jeffrey that, I come to England, say all wrong. _

_Alison must is very big now. Does she remember me I wonder. You remembered me so maybe so. I hope so. If she forgets please remind, but if you have a bad thing to say, say it good. Remember, I am great hero and fighter and handsome. This is the story. Also if I become god, I will not die like sad god you have. _

_The island is very nice. We get really good drinks from China last week. I fixed old man's roof and he give me his portion. I go through that, maybe I will break roof, get more sake. Have to make it look like someone else, but everyone think of me. Why am I the one everyone thinks of? Just because I did it? Not fair._

_At night you can hear the waves and the big fish. There is the island name for them, you wouldn't know it. At night they make loud sounds. Priestess says it bad luck to throw rocks at them to shut them up and I always miss anyway but still I try. They must respect me! I want to sleep!_

_No news from Dani-chan. He will be fine. _

_Someday I come to England and see you again and Alison and maybe new baby. Also Jeffrey._

_Mu Gen_

That was not the way she read it. She interpreted what he meant to say so it would be clear for Alison. Alison couldn't read Japanese, and of course Mugen's handwriting and poor grammar made it worse, but she didn't notice that her parents read it a little differently each time.

Georgie folded the letter and set it on the dresser. She looked at her sleeping daughter, resting her tiny head on her shoulder and an arm on her belly, and smiled.

Finally, there was no kicking and no pain. There was peace.

********************************************

The Darcys were joyously greeted upon their return from Chesterton, however brief the absence. Lady Kincaid wanted to know all about the wedding, Grégoire inquired after Dr. Maddox, Mr. Bennet greeted his favorite daughter, and Geoffrey simply wanted to see his wife and daughter. Georgie looked tired, but she was holding up.

The Bingleys were over for dinner, so Georgie's parents and siblings could spend time with her. Edmund wasn't present; he returned to London after the wedding with a promise to visit Kirkland as soon as the child was born.

"You look well," Bingley said to his eldest daughter, "all things considered."

"Because they must be considered."

"Well ..." He just shrugged and smiled. "I just want to see you well. And maybe have another grandchild."

"Maybe Lucy will have one soon."

"Let them get to know each other first. Like your mother and I."

"Yes, if only you could choose."

Bingley hugged his daughter. How did he always know when she wanted to lean on him? She decided not to question it.

********************************************

"Did you speak to Edmund?"

Georgie watched her husband as he climbed into the bed with her. "Barely," he said. "What he did say was brief. Very noncommittal."

"Did you see him speak to Charles?"

"Yes, but only because his mother was right in front of him." He took her hand and kissed it. "He was being polite. I think Aunt Bingley knows they're not speaking."

"I'm _sure_ she knows. Knowing my brothers, I doubt they could be more obvious about it." She added, "Did you speak to Uncle Maddox?"

He fell into the pillow. "Yes."

"And?"

"And he gave me a name. On a card. Some specialist. I gave it to Charles, so it's in his hands now."

"But he doesn't know."

"I don't think Dr. Maddox is that much of a fool, but he gave no indication of knowing, thank G-d. Besides, he was distracted with the wedding. With any luck, he's forgotten it."

"I doubt it."

"You're all smiles and giggles, aren't you?"

"Was I ever?"

He kissed her. "You know what I mean."

She had to be honest with him. She wanted to be honest with him. "I'm tired. Exhausted. I want this to be over with."

"I think you'll have your wish soon enough." He stroked her belly; she loved it when he did that. He must have known it by now. "In a month – less, probably – you'll be utterly absorbed in another world and barely think of Charles or Edmund or Dr. Maddox."

"Unless you name it after one of them."

"You know very well my preference."

"And if it dies?"

Geoffrey did not waver. "I have additional names, but I refuse to dwell on that unless I must, and not a moment before I must. I've just come from a wedding, so I can only imagine happy prospects."

"Will you keep imagining for me? I'm busy with your kicking child here."

He pulled her close and held her. "Gladly."

********************************************

Despite her confinement, Georgie was not alone. If anything she was surrounded by relatives, some in residence and some simply waiting for her to give birth. She allowed herself to get a little excited, to take a break from it just being draining, and decided to devote herself to Alison, even if her daughter asked questions to which she was not old enough to know the answers.

Isabel Franklin wrote her, full of good cheer. The hints of their shock at the requirements of a newborn in the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Franklin was there, but it was in between the well-crafted lines. Edmund sent her a letter, saying he'd missed her at the wedding and looked forward to news of her soon.

_Come and see me if you're so eager, you git_, she thought, but wrote something much nicer in the reply.

Her mother was over constantly, and she welcomed her. From the window she could see Charles and Eliza taking a stroll on Pemberley's grounds. Eliza was not yet married, and Charles was an ill man, but they had each other, in a way none of the other siblings had. Only with that reminder could she feel hope for Charles. He did not mention the doctor, nor did she expect him to, even though it was never far from her mind when they talked privately.

With her brief reign as mistress of Pemberley over, she retreated to her quarters. When Geoffrey was not fishing, or with his father in the study, he was with her.

"Geoffrey."

He looked up. He was massaging her swollen feet. "Harder?"

"No." She didn't want to admit it. To admit it meant it was real, and that the pain was real, and wouldn't go away. It would be there for hours and it would be terrible and make her feel like she was dying, but it couldn't be avoided. "The baby's coming."

He kissed her, the idiot. He was _happy_. She could have slapped him. "Try not to kill the mid-wife with your touch or something."

"Geoffrey, go!"

Between the pains she found the humor in what he said, as the married female force of the houses of Darcy and Bingley assembled to be there when Geoffrey couldn't. They had all gone through this, and they all survived, but she couldn't imagine they were in as much pain as she was.

"I would take being shot over this," she said to her mother.

"And how many times has that been?"

"Twice, but the second time, he hit my armor. Ow! _Fuck!_" In another situation, she might have enjoyed being allowed to freely curse around her mother and her aunts, but right now there was _nothing_ she enjoyed.

They were so patient, and the mid-wife's voice was so calm and they didn't have to call for a doctor more than once. He said everything was fine. _Fine?_ Was he _mad?_ If only she could concentrate, she could show him what pain _was_. _Lucky bastard_.

"Mrs. Darcy – "

"Don't call me that!" she screamed, and didn't feel the least bit sorry for it. "You're staring at my nethers; I think we're intimate enough for Christian names!"

Her Aunt Darcy laughed. Actually laughed. She could kill her. She could envision her death. "When is this baby coming? Why is it taking its fucking time?"

The midwife calmly said, "Push, Georgie."

And she did. And did and did and did and she hated them all, Geoffrey, her body, Master Hyuu and his reincarnation. He wanted to know compassion and all she felt was anger and pain. _Take that!_

And in the end, a cry.

"Congratulations, Georgiana. You have a son."

********************************************

When Geoffrey arrived, the last pains were gone, the screaming, blue baby was wiped clean and bundled, and her mother wiped the sweat from her brow. It must have been such a rosy picture, with clean sheets and no one shouting to push and her not cursing and screaming. Such an illusion. Her body was still screaming, but in a different way, and she was less audible about it.

And she cared not in the least.

She'd only gotten as far as a tiny hat for him, to keep her son's fragile head warm. The few strands of brown hair would not protect him. The blanket was a gift from Aunt Darcy, who offered her congratulations – as did her mother, and Lady Kincaid, but she heard not a word. She wanted to hear every sound he made, however indistinct. He had one pink arm unbundled, to explore the air before him. He still had not opened his eyes, but she was sure they were beautiful. She would never let go, never give him up.

That wasn't true. She supposed Geoffrey had done _something_ to deserve holding his own son in his arms. She watched with blurred vision as the midwife put another wet cloth on her head and the doctor proclaimed the boy to be small, but healthy.

"He has your hair."

"My father will be relieved." At least he admitted it. He did not disturb the cap; he just believed her. "Alison wanted to come up."

"Send her up, then."

"You don't think anyone else should come first?"

She was never so sure of anything. "No one else should come first."

He spoke to the nurse, but she was having trouble concentrating. When she opened her eyes, Alison was there, unsure of who to turn to. Geoffrey stood and set the boy down beside his mother, who cradled him to the extent that she could. "Don't you want to see your brother?"

Wide-eyed, Alison looked at the squirming, bundled newborn. "Did I look like that?"

"No. You were even smaller."

Alison did not smile. Geoffrey put his hands on her shoulders from behind, but still Georgie could see her fear. "Alison, come here. Maybe he'll open his eyes for you."

Alison approached, and with Geoffrey's help, she held her brother in her arms.

"I want you to listen to me," Georgie said. Her voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper now, but there was still force behind it. "Look at him. This is your brother. You're his big sister now. He needs you. He's going to need you until he's grown, and then, even some, though he may be loathe to admit it. I was the big sister to both my brothers. It's an important responsibility, being the older one. He'll look up to you. He'll want advice. And you will always be very special to him. Do you understand?"

Alison nodded, and looked back down at her brother.

"Look! He's opened his eyes," Geoffrey said. It was more of a shout. Overexcited as usual.

"They're blue," Alison said.

"All babies are born with blue eyes. After a while, they turn another color, or stay blue."

"Why?"

"I don't know, darling."

Alison removed the cap and stroked his smooth head, and smiled. "What's his name?"

Georgie looked to her husband, who answered for her. It was his decision, so let him say it, and proudly he did.

"William."

... Next Chapter - The English Patient


	28. The English Patient

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 28 – The English Patient

Pemberley had an heir.

The specifics that Pemberley and the Darcy family technically had two heirs in succession was overlooked as a technical detail in the reassurance that another generation was secured. That was provided the baby lived, but by all reports he was healthy as a horse, if a bit smaller than one.

The baptism was put off for a few weeks, so that the guests could arrive and the mother could recover. That did not stop the celebration from getting a head start. Some were upset that the boy would be baptized privately at Pemberley, and not in the church in Lambton, where a few lucky villagers might get a peek at the boy. Many could remember his father as a child not so long ago, and it seemed that Master Geoffrey was shaping up to be much like his father in temperament, which was only a good thing to the tenants and servants of that half of Derbyshire.

Not that the mother or father of the infant in question knew a thing about this, or would have cared should anyone bothered to tell them. Geoffrey accepted the congratulations while Georgie stayed mainly in her chambers, sleeping when she wasn't nursing William. The only one who could go in and out freely was Alison.

She ran in, followed by her father, who was carrying a stack of letters. The nurse curtseyed and left. Georgie was sitting on the edge of the bed facing the window, slowly drinking her tea from their favorite Japanese tea set. "Hello, darling."

"Which darling do you mean?" Geoffrey said as Georgie let Alison come to her. Geoffrey looked at the cradle, but his son was sleeping, and he knew better than to disturb. "I would hate to think I'm not special."

"You are the best husband I've ever had. I would dare to say you are the best husband I ever will have."

"But it needed a qualifier." He kissed her cheek and handed her the letters. "Edmund wrote that he'll be up with his wife for the baptism."

"Did he say how long they were staying?"

"No."

"So he'll be dashing in and out, then?"

"I don't know." It was more than likely. He looked back at William, whose eyes were now open. "Hello there."

"Don't wake him. I just finished – " Her voice broke off. "I should have done something."

"What?"

"I don't know. Something. Between Charles and Edmund." She leaned against her palm, tears forming. "They might have listened to me. I was so stupid – "

He sat down on the bed next to her, cupping her face with his hands. "It was not stupid. It will all be sorted out."

"I don't deserve this baby."

"You do." He had prepared himself for this, and yet he still was not prepared. He pulled her close and let her sob on his shoulder. "It's just your condition. It will pass." She just continued to cry. "It will pass. I promise. I love you."

By the time it passed, William was fully awake. Geoffrey held him for a moment before passing him to Georgie to be nursed, and escorted Alison out.

"Why does Mama cry when everyone else is happy?" she asked in Japanese.

"It's very hard to have a baby. Her body wants to cry. She can't control it, but it will pass."

"Then why don't you have the baby next time?"

He smiled. "When you're older, Ali-chan, and not a moment before, will I answer that question."

"But – "

"No buts. And look who it is!" His mother appeared in the hallway. "Mother."

"Grandmama!"

"George is here," Elizabeth said to her son. "He's in the library."

"Why am I not surprised?" He bowed to his mother, who took Alison for him as he scampered down the stairs, past Uncle Bingley before the man could say the words on his tongue, and into the library. "Grandfather Bennet. Mr. Wickham."

Mr. Bennet was in his usual chair, and he only nodded. George rose. "Mr. Darcy."

"I'm so glad you've come," Geoffrey said. "We could hardly have the baptism without you. Please excuse us, Grandfather."

"I could not deny a grandson a chance to see his new cousin."

There was no formal welcoming for George, however badly they all wanted him there and would have been happy to show it. George was still too pale, too thin, and there were circles under his eyes, but he managed a smile for Geoffrey, all the while rubbing his hands raw. He didn't speak on the way up the stairs, and Geoffrey didn't probe him. He knocked on the door. "George is here."

"Send him in!"

George almost needed to be pushed in the door of their chambers, he was in such a fright. Georgie sat with a robe over her gown in the sitting room, cradling her son. "Hello, George."

He bowed. "Georgiana."

"Sit down, and meet your godson."

He did as told, like a boy who was naughty. Geoffrey pulled up a chair for him and took the baby from Georgie, then passed it to George, who had some recent experience in baby-handling and knew to support William's head with his elbow. All of the tension he kept just beneath the surface, still uncontrollable and obvious, disappeared. He said not a word. There was a silent communication between William and George, except for the occasional newborn sound, but he didn't cry. He stared back up at his godfather in wonder, and had the expression returned.

"You deserve a better godfather," he said.

"Too late; it's decided," Geoffrey said. "You'd better step up to the task, Wickham."

George laughed, but didn't take his eyes off the infant. His forefinger caressed William's soft skin and little clump of hair, as untamed as his father's, just in less quantity. "I've been remiss on congratulating you both."

"I would not count a few minutes as remiss," Georgie said. "It is good to see you. How is Izzy?"

"Tired, as she insists on nursing Edward herself. She begs your forgiveness for her absence, but she won't leave the baby and Mr. Franklin won't leave either of them. Otherwise, she's happy." He let William find his finger, and tug on it with his tiny grip. "Very happy. My mother did well with childbearing."

"How many is it now?"

"Eight, counting us. She's been by every other day, and our kind host has not said a word of protest. Mother's calming down. I think the visits will slow a bit, and I'm to Ireland, so Izzy and Mr. Franklin will have their privacy with Edward." Not once did his gaze venture away from his soon-to-be godson. "Uncle Grégoire invited me to return with him after the baptism and stay out the summer."

"I always liked it there," Georgie said. "Very peaceful, if you don't count Patrick."

"He's written off for his accent, but he's intelligent, outgoing, and steadfast in his opinions. I can't say the same for most boys of twelve." In his arms, William began to whimper, which quickly descended into a wail. "What have I done?"

Georgie rose. "Nothing." She took the child from him. "He's tired. He's been up for a while. Excuse me." She exited to the bedchamber, and William's cries were muted by the door.

"A beautiful child. Congratulations." He was still more at ease, so Geoffrey took a place in Georgie's chair. "I didn't know what in the world to get him, but Izzy made a little outfit for him. It's blue."

"I'm sure Georgie will appreciate it."

"I got something for Alison – a music box. Should I save it for some occasion?"

"This _is_ an occasion," Geoffrey replied. "Thank you. You're too kind." Watching George's anxious expression, he said, "How are you?"

"I've been better." He added, "I've been worse. Did you get the letter from Audley?"

"What? When did it come?"

"I got it just before I left. I figured he would send the same to you. He's to be married. It wasn't a letter; just an announcement."

"I confess I haven't looked at my mail as regularly as I should as of late."

"It is to some woman named Cécile Gaudet."

"He mentioned her. She helped him do some of the guesswork during the search."

"Oh," George said. "I sent them a gift."

"Good, then."

He let George go, and greet some of the others. When Geoffrey had a moment, he went into the study and through his mail pile until he found an envelope with a French reply address, and brought it up to Georgie's quarters. She was on the bed, but not asleep. She was watching the cradle, where William slept.

"There's a letter." He opened it. It was the announcement of the forthcoming marriage of Robert Audley and Cécile Gaudet, in Valgones, two weeks hence. "Inspector Audley's getting married."

He handed her the card, which she glanced at, then flipped over. In French she read, "'Thank you for everything.' What did Uncle Darcy do to the poor man?"

"He bought him a house, I believe. The inspector's financial situation was ... well, hardly dire, but not what he preferred it to be. He was saving up to be married."

She smiled. "We should send something. As if we don't know about what your father did."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I've no idea, but I'm sure we'll think of something."

********************************************

Three weeks after his birth, William George Darcy was baptized in the chapel at Pemberley, as his sister had been. There was barely room to stand for the brief ceremony, as George Wickham was affirmed as being a devout member of the Christian faith and made to promise to love and protect his godson. The person in question had little to say on it, though he squirmed when the Vicar put the holy water on his head, and seemed happy to return to his mother's arms. Alison Darcy held hands with her father, and he occasionally looked down and gave her a smile. The last time he was present for a baptism in the chapel, it was at night because his daughter was too small and born too early, and they didn't think she would make it through the night with her tiny heart and tiny lungs, much less four-and-a-half years. He squeezed her hand and she looked up, but he didn't say anything. He didn't have words for it.

After the ceremony, William was passed around to his many relatives, close and distant, until he began to cry and was put to bed by his mother. The celebrations continued into the night, and Georgiana was present for most of them, and together they took an overtired and cranky Alison to bed at last.

"How did the ceremony compare, to the last one?" Georgie asked.

Geoffrey shrugged. "As long as they both have the same results of a blessed child, I feel we need not compare them."

********************************************

Unbeknownst to the Darcys, a week earlier, in the same little chapel in Valgones where ancient d'Arcy nobility had worshipped, Robert Audley took as his bride Cécile Gaudet. The ceremony was small and rather informal for a Catholic wedding. She brought only a single friend to serve as a bridesmaid, having no family to speak of and few people from her past that she would present to the Audley family as respectable people.

Robert thought his parents took the news well. His father was eager to see Robert settle, and "perhaps not get into so much danger." His mother, the mother conservative of the two, had initially opposed the match, but that was two years ago, and now it was obvious that Robert was committed to Cécile despite her previous profession, so Mrs. Audley figured perhaps they aught to be married, lest there not be a bastard child from their union. Robert's guests were a few of his father's friends that he'd known from childhood and some members of the police force.

To enthusiastic cheers, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Audley were pronounced husband and wife. Robert did not wait until stepping down from the altar to kiss his bride, and no one was truly surprised.

It seemed forever to him that they would have a moment's peace, with the long wedding meal that followed, and the many well-wishers from the place of his childhood stopping by with their congratulations. The sun was set, many wine bottles were discarded, and not more than one servant passed out from the free-flowing punch as Mr. and Mrs. Robert Audley ascended the stairs. It was hardly their first experience together, but the excitement of the day had its effects, so that they were little different from any overeager newlyweds.

In the morning (the late morning) they took a breakfast tray and began to sort through their wedding gifts. "Oh my G-d."

Robert picked his head up. "What is it?"

Cécile climbed into the bed to show him. In the box was a set of diamond jewelry – matching earrings, a necklace, and bracelets. "The card says – "

" – George Wickham."

"How did you know?"

"Those were bought with money that was stolen from him, so I gave them to him, and he said he didn't know what he would do with them. Still, certainly not a bad item for re-gifting. Do you like them?"

She grinned and kissed him. "How could I not? We will have to send a very nice letter to him."

There was one item at first he couldn't identify, but his investigative skills were not at their height. He stared down at the item in the box, something that looked like an ice pick with no sharp edge, and an extra curve on the side. Then he looked at the card. "Oh."

"What is it?"

"It's from the Darcys. Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Darcy. They wish us all the happiness in the world." He picked up the weapon. It had a little red ribbon that hung from the hilt. "It's a Japanese constable weapon. I don't know how he got a second one, but that's their gift. I saw him use it once."

"To do what?"

"To tackle someone."

"Wouldn't a wooden board do the same thing?"

"I suppose so." He whipped it around a bit. "Be thankful I'm not a Japanese constable."

She pulled him in for a kiss. "A Parisian inspector suits me fine."

********************************************

Shortly after the other guests departed, Charles and Eliza Bingley returned to London. Their parents were still basking in grandparenthood and would remain in Kirkland until further notice. The Maddoxes returned to Chesterton. Upon opening up the Bingley house and looking around Town, they were surprised to discover that not only was Isabel Franklin recovered from her condition, but eager to return to the social scene and dance at a few assemblies.

"All I've done is sit, sit, sit," she said. "I love Edward, but I'm too young to give up dancing. Not after the weight I've gained! He can spare me for a few hours."

Charles looked at Mr. Franklin, who gave a shrug of approval. Soon enough the Darcy sisters would be in Town, and then they could all go together, though one of the two of them would have to chaperone.

"You _like_ dancing," Mr. Franklin reminded Charles.

He groaned. "I'm afraid so."

That left his days open. He was a member of many clubs – some of them not clubs his cousins knew of – but he had that card burning in his pocket. He spent days glancing at it, staring at it, before finally deciding to act on it, because he had promised Geoffrey that he would try, and because he knew of nothing else to do. Dr. Maddox would not lead him astray.

It was in Hampshire, not far at all from London. "I'm going out," he told his sister one morning. "I may not be back until late."

"Be careful."

He would tell her when he got back, whether the news was good or bad. He promised _himself_ that. It was only fair. "Hampshire," he told the coachman, and gave him the address.

The ride was pleasant, but too long and too short at the same time. He wanted to gather his thoughts and prepare himself for the worst – even exposure – but the minutes going by just teased his nerves. The green hills were beautiful this time of year, and it was hotter than Derbyshire but cooler than Town.

It was not an office or building in a town. It was an estate, one that had to be ridden up to, that looked out over a lake. There was a breeze when he stepped out of the coach, and he took in his surroundings, if only to forget, momentarily, why he was here. Beyond the lake, there was another manor, as fine as the one in front of him, but it did not look occupied.

Was he supposed to give a name? Real or false? Sometimes he used false ones, but it felt wrong this time. Instead he just cut off the doorman. "I'm here to see Dr. Creswell."

"As a patient?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does he know you're coming?"

"He does not know the precise day, but he was informed."

The doorman nodded. "Come inside, please."

He had no coat to shed, only his hat and walking stick. He felt naked. It was an ordinary place, with the ordinary essentials of an English country house. The butler appeared. "Are you here to see Dr. Creswell or Lady Creswell?"

"Dr. Creswell, please."

The butler said nothing else, but showed him into a massive study that did not look like a doctor's office. There were a few jars of things and a lot of medical books, but for the most part it was an ordinary study, tastefully decorated with fine furniture and paintings.

The man sitting at the desk was probably close to his father's age, or a bit younger. His hair was mainly grey, but it was still partially a sandy blond, mostly curls. He stood. "You requested my services?"

"I got your card from Sir Daniel Maddox."

The butler put down the brandy tray and left, closing the door behind him. There was a window behind them, facing the lake and the house beyond it. Dr. Creswell nodded and smiled. "Yes. You don't have to tell me your name. It doesn't matter either way because I've no intention of telling anyone what it is, but you can do what you will."

"You know why I'm here?"

Dr. Creswell removed his spectacles and sat, gesturing for Charles to do the same. "There are only two reasons why Daniel would send a patient to me. If you were a woman, you would be in need of an abortion, something he never felt comfortable doing. Since you are not a woman, I must surmise that you are in fact what one would classify a sodomite, and are here in some desperate attempt to find a cure. But you know there's no disease in you. If there was, someone would have found it. Have you been to other doctors?"

"Yes."

"What did they say? If you wish to tell me."

"Bleeding, prayer. I drank some expensive tonic from India for awhile. And ... surgery. Several different kinds. I've even heard the lobotomy works."

"But you're an intelligent man so you didn't consider it."

"I ... considered it." He had to be honest. Beyond this, he had nothing, nowhere to go. "I considered a lot of things. Then my family found out. Some of them."

"Your parents?"

"No. Thank G-d."

Dr. Creswell nodded. "That is a terrible fate."

"My friend ... from college – his father shot him. In a hunting accident. He was so brave. He said after we graduated, he would tell him, and he did, and the next day they went out – " He choked up. He couldn't continue the story, not without crying.

To his surprise, Dr. Creswell's expression was one he'd often seen on Dr. Maddox's face – sympathy. "It's very hard on you when your friends die. Then there's the other option, living with your parent's approbation or the fear of it, which in itself is a kind of death. I never spoke to my parents or my brothers again before any of them died. I was far away by then and that was where they wanted me." He was expecting Charles' stunned stare. "I can sympathize with you, young man, for being a sodomite. After all, I am one myself."

... Next Chapter - An Ideal Husband


	29. An Ideal Husband

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 29 – An Ideal Husband

"How is that possible?"

"You know very well how it's possible, young man."

"Charles," he stuttered. "It's Charles. But you – fixed yourself."

"I did not. I am, however, a very lucky man, though that was not always something I would have said of myself in the past." He poured a glass of brandy for himself, and one for Charles, who accepted. "It's too stuffy in here. Walk with me. The servants know not to follow."

There was a side door in the office, and a small hallway that led out onto a massive veranda, perfectly suited for looking out over the water, which was still and peaceful. Charles drank his brandy and had a seat on one of the chairs.

"I suppose I could ask you to tell your own story, but mine's a bit longer so we might as well get it out of the way," the doctor said. "Though, in all fairness, I have a few years on you." He grinned at Charles. "This was my family's estate. I grew up here, with my two older brothers and my parents. When I was seventeen, I gained a sister. I still remember holding her and being fascinated that we were all once so small and innocent. By this time, of course, I was aware of my own proclivities – painfully so. I spent only a year at Oxford, then returned for the summer, and my eldest brother discovered me with the gardener's son. It wasn't all that of a compromising position, but it said enough. The obedient bugger that he was ran straight to my father, and the following evening I was out on the streets, with only the coins my mother gave me from a chest in her bedroom to survive. I believe they actually tried to register me as deceased, but failed to produce enough evidence.

"Having some education and natural curiosities about the human form that didn't always take a perverse turn, I found a surgeon who would apprentice me. This was forty years ago – if you owned a bone-saw, you could be a surgeon. Eventually I became part of a group that would meet after the long night shift. Dr. Maddox was a member of that group, the only actual physician among us. His brother had ruined the family fortune by gambling away and he was penniless. He was also brilliant, but he was blacklisted from the Royal College of Physicians and couldn't get a decent patient list, so there he was, hacking and sawing and sewing with the rest of us. He was so miserable, but he was quiet about it."

Charles nodded. He knew the story, but he didn't want to say so.

Dr. Creswell paced. "It was him, me, and several others who are for the most part dead. A terrible profession – you tend to catch a lot of the diseases you are paid to treat. For us it was cholera. Even Daniel, who was so obsessed with washing his hands and his instruments, caught it. For reasons I'll never understand, I was spared, so I devoted my time to nursing him back to health. At the time, I was very much in love with him, and to some extent, still am, I suppose." He turned around. "Please don't ruin my glassware."

Charles looked down at the shattered brandy glass, horrified. "I'm so sorry – "

"You know Dr. Maddox well, don't you?"

He nodded.

"He said not to tell him who came through his referral. He doesn't usually have to say that. I suspect he doesn't want to find out any more than you want him to."

Charles felt so guilty, he could hardly avoid it. "He's my uncle." He just kept his eyes on the ground, and the glass he'd ruined, and he saw Dr. Creswell's movement as he sat down next to him. "I'm sorry about the glass."

"I would drop it in your situation. I, perhaps, should have immediately clarified – he was far less interested in me as I was in him. Daniel might have been celibate at the time because of his damned propriety, but he made it clear he had not the slightest bit of inclination towards me. He broke my heart, and this was shortly after I'd saved his life, so he must have felt a bit bad about it, because he didn't toss me on the streets and refuse to speak to me.

"By then I had burned most of my bridges in England. He convinced me to go to France, where he had studied medicine, because he said things were a bit freer there. He even taught me some French and gave me money for the trip. I felt as though it was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me. So I went to France, and was a surgeon in Paris, which is where I met Gerard." He finished the brandy and set it aside. "It was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. It was a gift from our very disapproving Christian G-d that I didn't deserve, and for thirteen years, we lived together. He was a respected artist and I was his personal physician. He sent me back to college on his franc just to secure me a license and make the lie that much more believable. Dr. Maddox met him – we ran into each other in Vienna. He was on his honeymoon with Lady Maddox, who I suppose must be your blood relative."

"Yes."

"He was a bit shocked to see me alive and well, but he didn't shun me. I was happy he had done well for himself and he felt the same for me. We parted on good terms. He knew the situation with Gerard. I couldn't lie to him. My heart belonged to someone else, so it was easier.

"For thirteen years Gerard and I had a life together in his mansion on the shore. The best years of my life; I wouldn't be here if they'd not ended, but he really did need a doctor, and eventually, he needed a miracle. His heart failed him, and there was nothing I could do."

Dr. Creswell didn't speak for a moment, and Charles had the courage to look up at him. He knew when to wait, until the doctor was ready to start again.

"Gerard left me everything. His paintings were worth a fortune, but I couldn't sell a single one. He had no family to speak of, so I sold the house as well, and decided to return to England. I was in mourning; I didn't want another lover even if one presented himself to me. I took a little apartment in London, but I had no idea what to do with my time, so I risked it and called on Daniel. It was horrifying to see him disabled, walking around with a cane and relying on his other senses. In Vienna his vision was still intact, even if it was deteriorating, so I wasn't that shocked. And like Daniel always did, he soldiered on. He reintroduced me to his wife and I met his children, though his older son was in Cambridge, or Eton. I forget.

"Having no direction, I asked him for advice, and he presented the risky idea of trying to restore communications with my family. To my horror, I discovered this house abandoned. My parents died, leaving it to my oldest brother, who died in a riding accident. My younger brother was taken by some unidentified sickness, possibly smallpox. The servants made off with most of the money, and my sister had been not more than five, and put up in a poor house of some kind. Horrified, I had some trouble making the barrister believe I was actually Simon Creswell, heir to the estate and what should have been the fortune, until I simply bought the place, then went about finding my sister. She was fifteen and a maid in the kitchens of a very cruel family. She remembered only a rumor when she was young that there was another brother who died after she was born. I was so happy to find her and bring her here, but I told her nothing of the truth of my time in France.

"Abigail – my sister – needed a proper education on how to be a lady, and quickly. Fortunately Lady Agatha Ashby, a widow who lived just across the lake here, was happy to oblige. She was still wearing jet for her husband, never had children, and needed the distraction. The three of us made a handsome club, and she was here nearly every night.

"A year into it, two problems arose. One was that it was painfully obvious that my own sister's entrance to society would be enhanced if I was married and had a wife to support her. The second was that Agatha was not the owner of her property. The conditions set in her husband's will were that she would retain it for her period of mourning, which was about to end, and then it would revert to his brother, who did not care for her much. I presented her with the option of solving both problems by marrying me."

"Did you tell her?"

"Everything." He smiled. "Not _everything_, mind you, but enough. Then I said, if she still wanted to accept my proposal, I would love to have her as my wife, and there was a great deal of truth to it. She was not only a fine companion to my sister but to me as well. I didn't want her to go to some dowager house or be forced to remarry. She never wanted to betray her husband like that. And it seemed, she cared for me, or at least tolerated me, because she accepted, and we married. My sister enjoyed her first Season and married shortly after her second, and none of it could have happened without Agatha, for which I am so very grateful. And so, that brings us to now – me, married and still on occasion sneaking to London because apparently not all of my instincts died with Gerard – and you, trying to find a life that won't betray either yourself or your family, when it seems as though you are choosing between one or the other."

Charles said, "You're living a lie."

"The only people I've lied to are my sister and society. The former was necessary, the latter, I never cared for in the first place. My wife, I have never lied to."

"But I mean - I can't say it. I don't know how to say it."

"I'm lying to myself. Betraying my true nature. That is the sad fact of the matter, yes, but I've made my peace with it, because I had to. If you have family that you care about, and that cares about you, you will never find happiness by running off to another country and finding a lover, no matter how much he cares for you. Have you already tried?"

"Yes."

"France?"

"Italy."

"And how did it end?"

He stared at his shoes, so well-shined that they reflected back in his eyes. The words didn't come. Did he have to tell _this_ part? Every last, aching detail that he wanted so badly to forget?

"This is no doubt very hard for you, Mr. Charles, but you've come all this way, you might as well go the last mile."

The voice was so soothing. So like a doctor. "I didn't want to be discovered, so I tried to do myself in instead. My cousin found me in time. Then the housekeeper told him everything. And he told my sister. And she said I had to get help – or try again, because I'd already tried, alone, and I told you where that got me."

"Charles," he said simply, "are you the eldest son?"

"Yes."

"So you stand to inherit."

"Yes."

"Do you want children?"

It was such an odd question. He'd never asked it of himself and no one had asked it of him. Yes, it was his responsibility to produce an heir, the next Charles Bingley, but his father never spoke of it, and it was clear he didn't feel the way Uncle Darcy did about the Darcys of Pemberley, nor did he have reason to. They were only two generations removed from a tradesman. "I think my family will be suspicious if I don't marry and have children."

"You did not answer my question."

Because he didn't know the answer. Children of his own? He never thought it possible, because of all the things that came before it. Did he like children? _Of course_. He loved them. He loved his goddaughter. He loved his new nephew – _such an adorable boy_. "I hadn't thought much on it."

"Take some time. I will wait."

It was bizarre. It was such new territory for him, despite the fact that come to think of it, most of his cousins were now married with a child or at the very least married and hoping for a child. He was younger than his sister, but Geoffrey was a father at one and twenty, and a proud one at that. Even Frederick Maddox seemed to genuinely be enjoying the job. Why _not_ him? "I think ... maybe I would like that."

"This question perhaps you can give me an easier answer – have you ever been with a woman?"

"Once. In college. I didn't want to do it, I didn't like it, and I didn't like her. She was a whore."

"Literally or metaphorically?"

He felt a little smile coming on. "Literally. My cousins bought her for me."

"There are people in this world – married people – who find the sex act uncomfortable, not pleasurable, or plain awkward. I don't know the answer to their troubles. Perhaps they have the wrong partner, or not enough practice, or aren't suited for it at all. But if it is a means to an end, that is a very important end."

"But the girl – the wife – "

"Yes, that is the trouble, isn't it? Either way it's awful, being honest or dishonest. Cruel to her and to you. These are things in life we must bear. What does a bachelor look for in a wife these days, I wonder? That she's beautiful, or at least good-looking? That she is either witty or can make bearable conversation? That she comes with a large fortune?"

"Something like that, yes. Not that _I_ thought that – or have thought much about it – "

"Of course. But you know the standards your friends and family have."

"Yes."

"It is a shoddy business, then, that we select our mates at such an impossibly immature state. Of course how can one really know the business of being married before one is? But beauty does not last, you can run out of things to say, and money will only make you so happy. Happy enough, for some people, or so they convince themselves. I've heard that happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. Do you think that's true?"

He didn't know. He'd never really discussed marriage ... with anyone. He always avoided the topic. "Probably."

"You're quite a pessimist, but that's because you are hurting, and you have every reason to believe it will never stop. If you are true to yourself, and run away with some man who will always love you as you have tried, there is that nagging conscience that reminds you of a family you failed. So that is not an option, unless you're willing to swear off your loved ones – and you don't seem eager to do that."

"No." How was this man so good at guessing him? Because he was a doctor, or just in a similar position? "So it is marriage."

"Charles, I'm going to be honest with you. If you are thoroughly and fully uninterested in the female form, you will never be completely happy in marriage. On the other hand, most people are not completely happy in marriage – some aren't happy _at all_. Whether it was a forced arrangement or a bad choice or they grew into something that wasn't a good husband or a wife, they go about their lives and look for some goodness in it. For me it was that I love Lady Agatha. Perhaps not physically, but I do love her. Only in exceptional cases is a marriage entirely about the physical aspect, especially after a few years and a few children. My marriage is a partnership. My wife is someone who shares my interests, my passions – most of them – and cares for my sister like her own. My wife is someone who I look forward to greeting in the morning and saying goodnight to in the evening.

"The day may come where you find a woman and say, 'Well, this is a person I would not mind spending the rest of my life with, in all activities mundane or exciting,' – and that is the person you should marry."

Charles lacked an immediate response. The idea was too massive, and the doctor did not ask it of him. He said the first thing that came to his mind. "So that is it? A settlement?"

"If every person is only meant to achieve so much happiness in their life, they ought to at least go for every inch of it. Taper your romantic notions for the sake of your family and society, because you have to. That is the truth of the matter, and I will not tell a lie. Part of you will never be accepted, and you will always hide from most of the people you know, but it is not the _whole_ of you."

Charles frowned. "What should I do?"

"Think about what I've said. That is my prescription. You're young yet, aren't you? Many men are bachelors until they are thirty. The weight of it is not pressing down on you yet. It is my medical opinion that you ought to consider the idea that there are possibilities for you, limited though they may seem."

"What do you think we are, Dr. Creswell? Why are we cursed by G-d?"

"Considering sodomy is mentioned in the first chapters of the bible, I can only conclude that the institution has been around since the days of Abraham, and if we haven't eliminated it yet, we never will form a society that can. I do not believe G-d curses people in such a fashion, even if he disapproves. After all, if this was a curse from G-d, he would not have to make a law against it, for it is his own doing that it exists and he could eliminate this perverse preference any moment he chose to. G-d may seem very cruel, but certainly he is not _that_ cruel." He smiled, and stood. "Go and think on it, and come back to me when you need me again."

Charles accepted the handshake. He was at a loss as they returned to the study. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"Considering all I've said today, I don't know what could be more personal. You have my permission."

"Why did you say you're an abortionist?"

Dr. Creswell smirked. "When I was in France, and without financial worries because I was living with Gerard, I decided to continue my medical practice and opened a free clinic. Most of the women who came to me were in desperate straits – rape victims, women who would be turned out by their parents if they were discovered, girls who were just too young – and I could hardly say no. After all, according to the same scripture that forbids such a thing, I am already damned to hell, so I might as well ease the suffering of a few girls on my way there."

"I've never met a man like you, Dr. Creswell."

"Most men have some distinguishing trait, but I'll take the compliment. And of course, if we were to run into each other in another situation, we will deny knowing each other."

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"The least I can do – a few stories from my life and cheap advice. You should be asking for a refund."

They said their goodbyes, and Charles returned to the coach. As he climbed in, it only then occurred to him that the doctor had not asked for any form of payment.

********************************************

When Charles came in the door, Eliza was waiting for him. How did she know? _Because she's my sister_. "Eliza."

"Charles. How are you?"

That he had ever dreamed of abandoning her, much less the rest of his family, by either running to the Continent or ending his life now seemed a bizarre and horrible concept. "I have a lot to think on," he said, "but I might just be all right."

... Next Chapter - Romeo meets Juliet

**Note on this chapter:** So gay rights activists might be offended by Simon's advice (Charles won't necessarily take it) but he said it not just because it might be a possibility but because Charles needed to hear something that would give him hope for the future. He does not get married in two chapters or anything. This plotline is far from over.


	30. Romeo Meets Juliet

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 30 – Romeo Meets Juliet

George Wickham stayed a month with the Bellamonts, as the last summer heat burned out. Life in Ireland had a quiet, soothing rhythm to it. Uncle Grégoire's day still moved with the monastic hours, Caitlin's with the meals she made herself, and Patrick with his lessons and his free time, much of which he spent either swimming in the ocean or fishing on the rocks beside it.

Aside from his vegetable patch, Grégoire's summer project was to work on the chapel. Through much research and traveling, he had identified pieces of furniture that survived the Dissolution of the Monasteries by being sold off to nobleman, and purchased them for his chapel. They needed restoring, and it made the chapel décor look a bit haphazard as not a single pew completely matched, but he was happy to have George's help moving things around.

"Work is prayer," he said, a Benedictine saying. The physical labor took George's mind away from his thoughts and onto physical objects if but for a few hours a day, and that in of itself was a relief.

He filled his mind in the late hours with reading, and Grégoire was never short on books, even ones he hadn't read. Most of the family retired early to rise with the sun (or in Grégoire's case, long before it), but now Patrick stayed up later, using George as an excuse to do it. He was overjoyed to learn cards after George purchased a deck in Dublin; the Bellamont house had not a single deck.

"I tart yeh couldn't play cards cos they were de devil's game."

"Some people gamble on card games," George said as he reshuffled the deck, "and gambling is a sin. Hence, card games were forbidden in England on Sundays for centuries, but not the rest of the week. If you play it for fun, then there's no harm."

"'ow da yer know, Sassenach?"

"Ask your father. He seems to know everything."

"But if 'e says naw, den we canny play anymore."

"Then we are in a bit of a conundrum, cousin Patrick." He dealt another hand, and Patrick looked both ways, then scooped it up. "Hold the cards the other way, so I can't see what they are."

"I know dat!"

George chuckled and looked over his shoulder as he heard Caitlin Bellamont walk past; she was similarly smiling.

August became September, and George was due to return to London and gather his thoughts and his things if he was to travel to St. Andrews and spent at least part of a semester earning the degree he should have received in Paris. Aunt Bellamont sent him off with a massive feast and a hug. Patrick tried to return the playing cards. "Keep them," George said, which could not have made his cousin happier.

Uncle Grégoire took him to Dublin to catch the ship. "I have great confidence in you. You're like a son to me, George. If I could steal your suffering away by taking it on myself, I would."

"I wouldn't want that, but thank you."

"You can show your thanks by telling me of your good health and success in Scotland."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It may not be easy, but I have great faith that it will happen all the same."

********************************************

George was enthusiastically greeted at the Franklin house. He supposed he should find a place of his own, but every time he brought up the subject, his sister forbid it "until he married." Saul Franklin was pleased to see him. "You look well."

"You look tired."

"The cradle is feet away from the bed."

"Geoffrey Darcy never complains," Isabel said.

"Geoffrey Darcy is half-deaf, and when he rolls on his side, completely so."

"George! You're supposed to come to my defense."

He just smiled, and accepted his nephew. Edward was noticeably bigger and more active. He could hold his head up on his own, and when it was just the four of them, he would sit on his father's lap during a meal, his hand in his mouth.

"Grandfather Bennet wants to see him. We thought we might go to Derbyshire and stay for Christmas."

"When would you leave?"

"November, most likely," Mr. Franklin said. "Mr. and Mrs. Bradley are in Hertfordshire with the Townsends. What is the name of the place?"

"Netherfield Park, dear."

"Yes. They wanted their children to have some fresh air before the winter cold, she said."

"A sound idea," George replied. "Who else is in Town?"

"Charles and Eliza," his sister said. "Edmund and Lucy, of course, but they don't come with us when we go out."

"There is some dispute between Charles and Edmund," Mr. Franklin said. George kept his eyes on the soup. If Mr. Franklin thought it his place to say something, then it was more than a minor quarrel. "I don't know a thing about it, but it's obvious by their social schedules."

"Not having been long in England, I cannot begin to speculate," was George's response. He knew Charles and Edmund's relationship had never been easy – Charles so outgoing and pleasant, Edmund so serious – but he did not know the spark that lit the fire. Still, he could not call himself surprised.

"Oh! I'd forgotten. You must come with us tomorrow night to the assembly. Eliza wants to go but Charles already has some dinner engagement, and we need a fourth person."

"Forgive me – "

"_Please_, George." Not adulthood or marriage could change her pleading voice. "We'll let Edward decide it. If Edward smiles, you have to go. Edward, do you want George to go to the ball? Do you? Do you?"

He groaned. "So now it's a _ball_."

"You do!" she cried, as Edward smiled at his mother's face. "You do want him to go! And you won't let your uncle say no to you, will you?"

"Isabel, don't use our son – "

"George, you have to go."

He frowned, and put down his spoon, taking his glass of wine. "It seems I must. I cannot disappoint my nephew – just this once. Other times involving other balls may involve a disappointed infant."

********************************************

That night, the servant found something decent enough in his wardrobe for the informal "ball" or whatever it was. Fortunately black, the color he preferred, was the new trend. There would be dances he didn't know, but that would only serve as an excuse to sit them out. He steeled himself with a shot of whiskey in the study.

"Mr. Wickham."

"Mr. Franklin."

Mr. Franklin was, of course, far better dressed. "Isabel appreciates this."

"I don't see why she needs me. Eliza Bingley can find her own dance partners."

"She thinks it will be good for you."

He scowled, but did not contradict him.

Isabel finally emerged from the Nursery after seeing Edward to the care of Nurse, which took half a dozen goodbyes, but she did make it to the carriage and they were off. They picked up Eliza Bingley on the way, who was happy to see George and commented on how well he looked. From her, he accepted the compliment.

Life had not changed so much; the alterations to the ritual of the dance were subtle. Women were more modestly dressed, the dances more somber, but it was still a hot, stuffy room of two sexes assessing each other almost entirely for marriage prospects or some public scandal. The crowd was young, just the way he didn't like it. Mr. and Mrs. Franklin danced, which made Isabel happy, and her smile temporarily buoyed his spirits before he returned to his liquor.

The second dance he knew, as it was not so fashionable anymore, and he shared it with Eliza to be polite, for which she thanked him – and more importantly, let him be, to scowl in the corner by the bookcase. He didn't know anyone, which he wasn't sure made him happy or sad. If he knew them, he might have to make conversation. If he didn't, they might be intrigued, but they couldn't get at him. They didn't know him, his fortune, anything. His clothes were on the shabby side. He wasn't fashionable or handsome or smiling. If being the nasty man in the corner meant he might have some notion of peace, then it was not a steep price to pay.

"_Troilus and Cressida_," he said, causing the small party to turn their heads to him. He was within earshot several minutes before he spoke.

"What?" the gentleman, trying to flirt with two women, said.

"_Troilus and Cressida_ is the play you are referring to, not _Romeo and Juliet_."

"And what makes you an authority on the Bard?"

"Hardly an authority," he said, "but I know that _Troilus and Cressida_ must be the one you are referring to, because they live but their love dies. In _Romeo and Juliet_, the opposite happens. Their love lives on in their death."

"Surely there is some of Shakespeare open to interpretation?" the taller girl said.

"Not in this case. _Troilus and Cressida_ is also based on a medieval text but concerns the Trojan War, while _Romeo and Juliet_ was based on an Italian love story and takes place in Renaissance Italy." He added, to the man, "A simple viewing of at least one of the plays will help you tell them apart."

The man scoffed and walked off, and the smaller of the girls followed. The taller one, with dark hair, stayed. "Are you then a theater snob?"

"If you wish to find fault in me after the way I lambasted your companion, you will have to find it elsewhere. I read plays, and the Bard is not even the focus of my pleasure reading."

"You find someone superior to the Bard, then?"

"Not superior," he said. "It is a matter of opinion and taste. I prefer medieval epics, on which many Shakespearean plays happen to be based. Nonetheless I wouldn't have gotten far in any of my schooling without memorizing a little Bard."

"The cost of long hours in the classroom."

He finished his wine, and set it on the passing waiter's tray. "It is required for conversations like this."

"Lest a man lead a woman astray in their knowledge of English theater."

"Nonsense. The woman has every ability, should she be so inclined, to see the plays herself. And if she cannot afford them, she can certainly read them."

"All of them? Even those not to be read by the fairer sex?"

"I do not believe there is much writing in this world that cannot be handled by the fairer sex, and specific titles I cannot name, having never found one."

"But a woman must be proficient in Latin and Greek to read much of the world's literature."

"And who says a woman is not capable of being proficient of Latin and Greek, should she apply herself?"

"Some people would be shocked by that notion. You are quite a social revolutionary."

He was uncomfortable. "Hardly." If he could have ducked in between the books of the case behind him, he would have. "Have you not had the chance to learn an ancient language, if you are so inclined?"

"I have."

"Why did you not mention it?"

"Have you looked around? That is hardly social conversation."

He smirked a little bit beneath his hung head. "And this is the most social I've been all night. We must share a low opinion of the company, my own family excluded."

"And yet we do our merry dance, because all the world's a stage."

Despite himself, he laughed. "Tonight, it certainly is."

"Miss Turner! Miss Turner!"

She raised her fan to shield her eyes from the man across the room with a hand raised. "Protect me. You cannot be unfamiliar with the knight in shining armor and the damsel in distress."

"You are in distress?" He looked over. "He seems like a pleasant fellow."

"He's made a point to be pleasant around me and my inheritance."

"You carry it around?"

The man had crossed the floor and caught up with her. "Miss Turner, I must beg for the glorious opportunity to share the next dance with you."

She looked at George, so he could not escape her gaze. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but I believe her card is filled for the next dance."

"Is this true?"

"I'm afraid it is," George said. "I will be dancing with her."

George was taller than him, and the little man was intimidated by a very cold stare. He bowed to Miss Turner, as that was apparently her name. "Another time."

She curtseyed politely but did not give him a verbal response. "I am in your debt," she said to George, as soon as the man was gone.

If his luck could not have gotten worse, the music cued for the next dance, and he knew it. They took their places across from each other, and bowed. He was so glad he was wearing gloves, because his hands were sweating. He didn't want to be here, with this mysterious woman and her suitor and a room full of people watching him dance with her, if she was so desirable. He shouldn't have insulted that man. He shouldn't have gotten involved and upset someone. But there was no time to worry, because the dance was starting.

"For a good dancer, you are uncommonly silent," she said.

He raced for an explanation. "It has been awhile. I have been in school and I may forget my footing."

"It has not happened yet."

And it did not. She did not press him for further conversation, but nor did she look displeased. The dance was short, and he was too wound up to be happy when it was over. They walked to the side as the next line set up, and she took a glass of wine. He hid his hands behind his back; it was nobody's business that they were shaking – certainly not hers.

"Miss Turner," said an older man, probably the emcee.

"Oh, sir, thank goodness you are here. I have just realized I have not been formally introduced to the man I have had some conversation with by odd circumstance."

He bowed deeply. "Let me make the introductions. Mr. Wickham, this is Miss Cynthia Turner. Miss Turner, this is Mr. George Wickham."

Before another word could be uttered, Miss Turner turned, and cast the wine in her glass squarely on George's face.

********************************************

"Eliza," Isabel whispered, "have you seen my brother?"

"I thought I saw him dancing."

"With whom?"

"Someone I did not know. Nor did he, from the looks of it."

"No! You must be mistaken."

"Odd. I thought I was not. But you're right, I must have been."

********************************************

"Oh my goodness!" Miss Turner said, covering her mouth. "I am so sorry! I did not think – surely you cannot be _that_ George Wickham. You are too young."

Gracefully wiping his face with his handkerchief, he said, "You mean my father. For that kind of reaction, he must have done something terrible, probably to your mother. You're not a bastard sister, are you?"

It was his rotten luck – thoroughly secured for the night – that a waiter happened to be passing by with a tray of champagne. She grabbed another glass and repeated the incident.

He wiped his eyes. "I deserved that." At which point, the butler hurried them both into a side room, where he could attempt to clean up the guest. Fortunately neither liquid staining his face and dripping down into his cravat was red or any other more visible color. "I am sorry. I lack ... certain graces. Also, knowing my father and seeing your reaction, there is a distinct possibility that what I said was true."

"How dare you!"

"That is not an answer, Miss Turner. If I do have a sister, I would actually prefer to know it."

She stifled her initial comment in an attempt to calm herself. "I am not. My brother is older, and he was born years after she left Newcastle. Is that where you're from?"

"Originally. We left shortly after my father's death. I was four, so I have little memory of the place."

"I should not be repeating this family history to you," she said, "but I must now rectify my mistake. My mother was a tradesman's daughter in Newcastle, and she apparently knew your father, because in all of our lessons on what to be wary of in the character of a rake, she used him as an example. I know it must seem terribly disrespectful – "

"Or just accurate," he said. The butler finished repairing what damage could be repaired, but stayed in the room, lest they be alone. "My father was a rake. My mother has always lamented it, even after she remarried. And I bear his name, and he is still my father."

"You did not deserve the insult, Mr. Wickham."

"You did not deserve to be called a bastard," he replied. "Shall we call it even and forgive each other?"

"We shall." She curtseyed, and he bowed.

"I will take my leave of you then, Miss Turner, as my presence makes you uncomfortable and that is not a suitable thing to do to a lady."

"On the contrary," she said, "until we were introduced – and I suppose including what came afterwards – you are the most interesting and reasonable person I have met all night."

********************************************

Shortly afterwards, Isabel proclaimed that she was eager to be home and see how Edward was getting on without her, and the four of them returned to their coach. George stared out the window, but did not see the streets. All things considered, he had parted with Miss Turner incredibly amicably.

His sister nudged him to get his attention. "I heard a rumor – "

" – which is one of the main purposes of balls – "

" – that _you_ danced with a stranger."

"I had to. It was to save her from an embarrassing situation of an unwanted suitor at her side."

"You, saving a woman?" Eliza Bingley chimed in. "Very dashing, Mr. Wickham."

He groaned, and leaned back against the wall of the carriage.

"Let us not pile on George," Mr. Franklin said, "who did us all a favor by coming tonight. We should be grateful and not nag him."

"We're not nagging!" Eliza and Isabel said at the same time, and George covered his eyes. But they were silent, at least on that subject, and went on to discuss other aspects of the ball that he turned his ear from, his mind oddly preoccupied.

... Next Chapter - Sunday in the Park with George


	31. Sunday in the Park with George

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 31 – Sunday in the Park with George

Within a week, George Wickham opened his schoolbooks again, and was surprised to find how easily the knowledge came to him. Perhaps he wasn't so terrible a student after all. He missed the days when Dr. Maddox, now largely in Chesterton, was there to comfort him. _No_. He was a man now, and would stand on his own two feet, however unsteady they may be.

On an unseasonably warm day, the house became unbearable and Isabel insisted on a walk to the park. They had received as a gift one of the new carriages for an infant and she was eager to test it out, and Edward was agreeable enough to go along with everything. _He understands so little of the world around him_, George thought, watching him in awe as Isabel placed him inside the contraption. _He nonetheless trusts everyone; he enjoys everything_. He scoffed. _George Wickham, you are not jealous of a baby. I will not stand for it_.

"George, are you coming?"

He could have hidden in his room. He had no reason not to, and he supposed he ought to be studying, but he was transfixed by Edward's expression. "Yes."

The Franklins exchanged glances but made no comment. Together the three of them (plus one) walked to the park, where everyone else in London seemed to have the same idea. Isabel knew just about everyone, it seemed, but she did not call on them all. Mr. Franklin hung protectively over his child as the onlookers came, and George stayed a few steps back.

He bowed politely, as he supposed he ought, to the passing woman. "Miss Turner."

"Mr. Wickham!" It was her, in a lovely blue sundress. "Matthew, allow me to introduce Mr. Wickham, who was so good to dance with me so I could escape that awful cousin of ours. Mr. Wickham, this is my brother, Matthew Turner."

"Mr. Wickham."

"Mr. Turner."

"Are you here on your own?"

"My sister," George said, gesturing to the woman with the carriage and the horde of onlookers. "She's here with her husband and child. The house was just too stuffy." He put his arms behind his back, so she couldn't see his shaking hands. He didn't know why they were shaking, but he didn't question it. "I see you have the same idea."

"Where do you live?" Mr. Turner asked. He had a pleasant expression, and lighter hair than his sister.

He gave the fashionable address. "Temporarily. I'm a student – just finishing my time in Paris and going on to St. Andrews until December. Then I'll find my own place, but now it seems a waste when I am so rarely in Town."

"What are you studying? Are you a Fellow?"

"I am. I'm studying medicine. If I graduate, and then pass the exam and the review of the Royal College of Physicians, I'll be a doctor by spring." He smiled just a little. "Hopefully."

"A doctor," Miss Turner said. "A very noble profession."

"My G-d man, you must have been studying for years," Mr. Turner said.

George nodded. "I have been in school nearly a decade. Most of it in Cambridge, then Paris."

"Shall we walk, then?" Miss Turner said, and they walked a few steps behind the slow advancement of the Franklins. "Matthew and I spent a spring there when we were children. Our father wanted us to see an ancient city, but Mama would not go any farther south."

"That does present a bit of a problem, if you do not include England. Oxford is very old. And there are many sites in Ireland from the pagan era that are quite beautiful, though I suppose they're not a city. They're more ... ruins. But very scenic. My uncle lives in Ireland."

"He's Irish?"

"French. His wife is Irish, and he's a Catholic, so England wasn't very suitable to him. It was a bit of a summer home for us, growing up."

"London is far too hot in the summer," Mr. Turner said. "I don't see how anyone stands it."

Miss Turner looked up at George. "He will talk any friend he has into hosting him at a country home, so he can go hunting and shooting and all that and come home with a bunch of dead creatures. But I suppose dead animals don't shock you much with your training, do they Mr. Wickham?"

"It is not a matter of shock. I have many cousins who enjoy that sort of sport, but I simply do not. It is a matter of taste."

"And what is your sport then?" the brother asked.

He scrambled for answer. "Book hunting."

"Books? I can't imagine those are hard to track!"

George smirked. "The rare ones are."

Miss Turner laughed. She had such a natural one, not like those chatty women who were always laughing at their own jokes or _at_ someone.

They chatted amiably for a while and caught up with the Franklins, and there were introductions all around. George took his eyes off Miss Turner long enough to send a warning look to his sister, or she was likely to go off like a teakettle or something. She stymied herself and inquired about their plans, and they mentioned they would be attending the ball next week at Lady ____'s house.

"We just received the invitation," Isabel said. "Certainly, we will hope to be there, unless something comes up." At which, of course, Edward cried. "As you can see, things do come up. This is Edward, and now he's awake. However, I'm sure some of us will be there."

George's face was hot. "We'll see," he grumbled noncommittally. "Good day, Mr. Turner. Miss Turner."

"Good day."

With the Turners gone, Isabel wasted not a second. "Do not think of hiding in your room, because when I'm done with Edward, I'm coming after you to hear all about it."

"There's nothing to hear."

"That'll make it worse," Mr. Franklin said.

"I wish I did not already know that," George replied, and as Isabel shushed her son, they began the short walk home.

********************************************

The day of the ball was a busy one for George, who had to update his wardrobe to more current fashions, which took two intolerable days of shopping and fittings and he groaned the whole way through it, but he survived (much to his own surprise and his brother-in-law's amusement).

There was a cancellation; Edward had a cold and Isabel would not attend, her maternal instincts winning out, but she insisted on her husband attending, and the Bingley twins would be there. "There is no escape," she told her brother.

"And you've sent your husband as a spy." He managed to make part of it a jest. He was too nervous, but the last thing he needed was liquor, though it would have calmed his nerves. He did not want the other effects.

After setting Edward back in his crib, Isabel turned and looked at him. "You look wonderful. The best I've seen you in years."

He looked down.

"I know you're nervous. It's all right to be nervous. For goodness sake, let you be nervous about something _good_ instead of something _bad_ for a change."

"It might be bad."

"That fact has not yet been established, and you're meant to be a doctor. Don't you deal in facts and experimentation?"

"On my patients, hopefully not the latter."

"And you can joke! I'm so happy for you."

"There is no cause for celebration."

She smiled. "Seeing you well is cause for celebration."

He doubted he was _well_, but took the compliment. "It could be a passing thing."

"Nothing with you is a passing thing. Certainly not with a woman."

"Please don't make me blush."

"Too late." It was true. "Good luck." His nephew chimed in by wailing. "Edward! Oh, my baby is in distress."

"He has a cold. He's probably mostly confused." He took a clean cloth and wiped Edward's nose, then checked his forehead. "No fever. You're tougher than that, aren't you?" Edward stopped squirming long enough to grab at George's hand. "See? I told you."

"You got him to stop crying. Oh, you're the best brother."

"You won't say that when I leave and he resumes."

She kissed him on the cheek, and Mr. Franklin stepped in to say it was time to leave, and to give his goodbyes to his wife and son. Then they were off, first to pick up Charles and Eliza Bingley and then on to the ball.

"You look sharp," Eliza said.

"Very," Charles added, which only served to make George more uncomfortable. Mr. Franklin gave him a knowing smile.

There was a bit of a line to get in, but the ballroom itself was quite large and the colder evening breeze through the windows made it not too stuffy (yet) as people met and assembled. Fortunately Saul Franklin did not insist on dragging George through the introductions with his old friends and associates from his travels, and George instinctively moved to the corner while the Bingleys sought out dance partners.

"So eager to escape, Mr. Wickham?"

He bowed very low. "Miss Turner." He smiled, but it was not his easiest smile. "I'm afraid I am not at my best at this sort of gathering." Her gown was a different shade of blue, very complimenting to her eyes, which were always focused. Was she trying to tell what he was thinking?

"And yet you frequent them."

"I am dragged along on occasion. I used to accompany my sister, before she was married." He added, "Also, sometimes I have cause."

"Is Mrs. Franklin here this evening?"

"No, my nephew has a cold. Mr. Franklin is, along with some of my cousins." _Please don't make me introduce them_. "And you, Miss Turner?"

"My brother is here, no doubt looking for a pretty face." She frowned. "I fear I am not doing him justice."

"There is nothing wrong with an appreciation of beauty," he said, "on a certain level."

"I wouldn't want you to have the wrong impression of him."

He nodded. "I will try not to judge him either by his actions, deeds, or what I hear of him, then."

"So, not at all."

"That is a more succinct way of saying it." She smiled. She really did have a wonderful smile. "May I have the first dance, Miss Turner, on the condition that I know it? I fear I've fallen behind on the latest fashions during my studies."

"You may. My awful cousin is here, so I am grateful for it, as he will no doubt approach me when he sees I am unattached."

_Attached_. He liked that word. "I see. And what of this noxious cousin can be said in something as public as a ballroom, if anything?"

"There is nothing I care to hide. My father left me a sizable inheritance, and he expected something from the will and didn't get it, so he has every intention of charming me into matrimony. It would not be so very painful if it was not so very obvious."

"I know, and am related to, many people who make their intentions very clear, so I sympathize."

The musicians began to tune their instruments and the dancers lined up. _Thank G-d it's not a waltz_. He heard it was not an excessively hard dance, but he had never taken the time to learn it, and would not stand for crushed feet. He found himself wondering what her slippers looked like, as he could hardly see them beneath the massive gown. _What an odd thing_.

"Does this dance suit you?" she said after a minute of silence between them.

"Yes. Very much so," George said, though he really hadn't been thinking of the dance in particular. "I would not say it is a favorite. That would go too far."

"What is your favorite?"

He stammered, "I don't have one. I just didn't want to make the announcement."

"Are you afraid to declare yourself?"

"To a dance, yes." He corrected himself. "Not afraid." A lie, technically, because he was very afraid at this moment. "I have never given much interest to the matter of selecting dances, even after having been to so many of them."

"I can find a more agreeable topic."

He twirled around the girl opposite him and crossed the floor to pass by her again. "It's not disagreeable."

"Do you intend on countering everything I say tonight?"

_Wickham! You idiot!_ "It is an easy way of making conversation."

"Are gentlemen not taught to agree with the lady, should she go so far as to have an opinion?"

"You have a poor opinion of your sex and their intelligence."

"You have avoided the question."

He had to smile a little at that. "I was taught how to charm a lady, to tell the truth of it, by various acquaintances and mentors. I cannot recall putting the advice to use." Most of the advice he _did_ use did not need to leave a bedroom. "Were you given advice on how to charm a man?"

"You must be as familiar with that sort of advice as I am of men's learning on the subject."

He finally grinned as he turned again to face her. "You have avoided the question."

"Touché. Yes, to my mother's frustration, I let her advice go unused, even when it involves distrusting certain people at first glance."

"I believe you did initially respond in a manner in which your mother would approve, if I dare say so."

"I do honestly feel badly about that."

"And I do honestly feel sore about the way I responded," he said, circling her. "My Uncle Bingley says to make light of past mistakes. That is a piece of advice I will attempt to take."

"I would agree with your uncle."

"He would be pleased."

The dance ended, and they bowed to each other. He did not head for the punch, inclined as he was to dunk his flushed face in it, it would no doubt be heavily spiked. He did accept wine from the server, but only had a sip to quench his thirst. When he located Miss Turner, she was speaking to the man he'd seen at the previous ball, and she curtseyed to him, briefly flashing a frown at him. So it was the cousin. He shrugged sympathetically, but there was little he could do if she accepted the offer other than watch her. _Not such an unpleasant prospect_.

"Right out of the starting gate, then?"

He frowned at Mr. Franklin. "Quiet." He wanted to say more, but Mr. Turner was approaching. "Mr. Turner."

"Mr. Wickham. Mr. Franklin. May I join this men's club for a moment? I am in need of some sanctuary."

"Pretending not to be at this ball seems to be the fashion tonight," Mr. Franklin said. "What is the trouble?"

"What else, but a woman with overly persistent charms? She's determined to see a second offer from me and she's a horrible dancer."

"Does she make good conversation?"

Mr. Turner looked at George and regarded the question queerly. "No. Of course not." He added, "Do not think less of me by being spoiled by my intellectual of a sister."

"So you are in search of a dance partner," Mr. Franklin said. "I wonder if my cousin owes me a favor – or is about to. Miss Bingley!"

Eliza Bingley was within earshot, and came to their side. "Mr. Franklin. Mr. Wickham."

"Eliza, please allow me to introduce Mr. Turner. Mr. Turner, this is our cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bingley."

She curtseyed and he smiled and bowed. "May I have the honor of the next dance, Miss Bingley?"

"You may on the condition that you tell me what they said to you."

"He commented that he was in need of a partner," Mr. Franklin rushed to say, "and you are a good dancer, Miss Bingley." They had danced a few times. "You come recommended."

She blushed and curtseyed. "Then I accept. Mr. Turner?"

They walked off together and George said, "He'd better be nice to her or Charles will never forgive me and I'll never forgive you."

"A dire pronouncement! I will have to hope for the best."

George danced the last dance with Miss Turner, on which they found the agreeable topic of literature. She was interested in French philosophy; he was no expert but had certainly perused enough over the years so that he could reply at some length. He forgot he was dancing but didn't miss a step.

At the meal, they were not seated together, but by chance the Bingleys were seated by the Turners, and chatted with them over dinner. Only afterwards, when people moved to cards, did George and Miss Turner find a moment to themselves. He wanted it, and she seemed so inclined as well.

"I don't wish to put a damper on your evening, Miss Turner," he said, "but I am leaving next Tuesday for St. Andrews."

"It is that time already?"

"I'm afraid it is." He blushed, and looked down. He could tell her eyes were on him. Usually it bothered him when people stared at him, or looked at him at all, and it did bother him, but in a different way. "I will dare to say that I would stay in touch with you."

"My brother can read and write. Tolerably."

"You do not give him much credit."

"You either are a contrarian or are determined to see the good in people," she said, and he did not know the answer. "It is true that I make sport of my brother, partly because he likes it that way. I should hold my tongue more often."

"I would prefer you did not," George said before he could stop himself, and she _blushed_. "I will write your brother, and tell him how I am getting on, though there is usually little to report. I hope he will reply in kind."

"I will make sure he does."

... Next Chapter - The Truth of the Matter


	32. The Truth of the Matter

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 32 – The Truth of the Matter

"And then what?"

"Then we discussed I don't know – Pope."

"You discussed the Pope? Is she a Catholic?"

"Alexander Pope. The poet. See? It's not very interesting and you can stop asking."

At the head of the table, Mr. Franklin laughed. "It's a futile effort, George. You must know that."

"I must call on her," Isabel said. "What is her Christian name?"

"Cynthia," George grumbled, swallowing the last of his coffee.

"Does she have sisters?"

"One. Younger than her, not out yet. And if you're going to embarrass me, please wait until I've left the county."

"I'm not going to embarrass you. If Saul can meet her and Charles can meet her and Eliza can meet her than I can certainly meet the lady whom my brother is courting."

"I'm not courting her!"

"If you keep acting like that, maybe you won't be," Mr. Franklin said in amusement. "Fine, I will take up the business of distracting my wife. Izzy, did you know Eliza Bingley danced two dances with a gentleman we introduced her to?"

"We were merely standing in adjacency," George said.

"Who was it?"

"Mr. Turner. Matthew Turner. They had the second and third set."

"In a row! That's wonderful. He's an amiable gentleman is he not?"

"He is."

"What did Charles have to say?"

"He said nothing in front of us."

"Of course not. Charles and Eliza are thick as thieves. But the point is, he did not look like he disapproved."

"No."

"Oh, it's so wonderful!" Isabel Franklin wiped her eyes, which were tearing. "Excuse me." She stood up and left the room as she lost her composure.

Mr. Franklin merely had to glance at George, who said, "Heightened emotions are perfectly normal in new mothers, especially for the first six months."

"I shall miss you for many reasons, Mr. Wickham, but one is that you're so darn helpful to have around."

********************************************

The following day, Mrs. Franklin paid a call on her new acquaintance, Miss Turner. She was received by and briefly introduced to Mrs. Turner, who simply inquired as to how they met (at the park; Isabel did not give specifics) and had the servant show her to the sun room, where she was greeted by Miss Turner and her younger sister, Miss Maria, who was sixteen and had a pleasant smile but did not stay even the brief while, declaring herself uninterested in "women chattering away."

"She _chatters_ more than me, I assure you," Miss Turner said. "She's just having her little revenge for having to sit through a philosophy discussion I had with her governess."

"I confess, I was just like her at that age," Isabel said. "I might have really gone wild if not for George."

"I apologize for asking, but did your mother remarry?"

"Seven years after my father's death, yes. I was raised with Mr. Bradley as a father, and he was never particularly stern even when I suppose he ought to have been, so in that way he was a good father to have. But I always had George, even when he was away, especially after the new family started growing. He always wrote. We have six siblings now, the oldest just a tad younger than your sister. It was a lively household."

"I cannot imagine your brother in such a place."

"He managed. I remember when he grew and his bed wasn't big enough for him. He had to wait nearly two months to get a new bed, and he slept with his feet hanging over the edge. Oh! What a silly story. Please don't tell him I told you. He does not like to be made to look ridiculous."

Miss Turner studied her, as if trying to see the siblings together. "Of course, I will not say a word." Then she laughed, and Isabel joined her.

********************************************

While his sister was occupied with Miss Turner, George Wickham was in his chambers at the Franklin house, reading on the very boring circulatory system when the servant appeared. "Mr. Turner to see you, sir."

He shut the book. "I will meet him in the drawing room, if it is available."

"It is, sir. Also, he does not appear to be in an agreeable mood, if I may say so myself."

A chill went through him. "Have my best whiskey brought up. Not Mr. Franklin's – mine. Wait – not the '04, that's still sealed. Something younger."

"Yes, sir."

He straightened his shirt, put his coat back on, and walked quickly across the courtyard, the shortest route to the drawing room. He did not want the time to get worked up. He wanted to do this surgically, with precision, if it could be done. He could stress about it later.

Fortunately he did not have to wait long; Mr. Turner joined him shortly and shut the door himself. "I will have the truth of it or you will leave my sister alone."

"If you clarify what it is you wish the truth of, then I will be happy to oblige you. Please, sit."

The servant arrived with the whiskey tray, and set it down before leaving them. Mr. Turner did not leave. He paced. His countenance was different when he was angry – No, not angry. Concerned. Protective. "You can understand that it is in our interests to investigate if you have funds to support my sister, if that is your plan."

"Yes. Please be assured – "

"You were a hard man to pin down, because you make so little of yourself, where other men are not afraid to name their own price. I admired you for that. No one seemed to know precisely what you were worth, only that you have a mother remarried and living on Gracechurch Street, and a sister who has done quite well for herself. You have not taken a place of your own, but since you're a student living abroad, that's not a sign of anything. But yes, eventually, I did hear that you have two thousand a year, possibly more."

"That is fairly accurate, but I've no intention of being an idle gentle - "

"I will not have my sister unknowingly live off blood money, Mr. Wickham."

He felt the color go from his face. He sat in the chair, trying to contain his composure. "Please explain precisely what you mean."

"So there is some truth to it?"

"My fortune was a trust, yes; set up by my uncle to wash the blood from his hands. But I will not stand to have you sully the Darcy name, Mr. Turner, however well-intended you are. My uncle wanted to see the two children he'd made fatherless have some chance for a good life. He supported me when my stepfather couldn't, and encouraged Isabel in her education as well. He is a good, honest man and I accepted his gift when I came into majority because I knew he wanted me to have it." He took the whiskey, and poured Mr. Turner a glass. "So there you have it. The truth. Not every last detail, I suppose, but all of the important ones." He looked up at Mr. Turner, and saw the confusion on the man's face. "What is it?"

"That ... was not the story I heard." He accepted the glass from George. "Excuse me." He was seated, and took a long drink. "I confess I have no idea what you're talking about."

"What story did you hear, Mr. Turner?" He was still full of indignation; _what had been said about Uncle Darcy?_

"That your father had a massive gambling debt in Newcastle and in his regiment, and was going to be tarred and feathered, so he found a girl and ... took her innocence, then extorted money from the father. But the father had his revenge, and Mr. Wickham lost a duel with him because he was shot before it began. When he died, the money went to you." He gulped. "I heard this – from sources I thought maybe reliable, various ones cobbled the story together."

"Behind every great lie is a small truth," George said. He poured but could not drink; his heart was beating too fast and he thought it might explode. He could not comprehend all of the emotions he had, all changing in an instant. "Or several truths. Yes, my father was deeply in debt when he died. He was in debt all his life. Yes, my father seduced women with no good intentions for their futures. He seduced my mother, and would not have married her, had my Uncle Darcy not paid him to, to save the Bennet family honor so Uncle Darcy could marry my mother's sister. But not for my uncle's money, I would have been a bastard.

"My father did die in a duel, but he shot the other man first, disabling his right hand so he could not hold the weapon properly. That man was my uncle. I was three at the time – I remember nothing of it but the funeral. My father, you see, is named after George Wickham the first, the steward of my uncle's estate. That is the first lie, as he is not his father's son. My grandfather, Geoffrey Darcy, had an affair with Mrs. Wickham and the son was the production of their efforts. This all remained under wraps until a few weeks before my father's death. When my father went to Pemberley, the Darcy estate, to get more money for his debts, Uncle Darcy told him the truth, that they were half-brothers. My father refused to believe it and challenged him to a duel, then shot his good hand. As my other uncle, the bystander, attests, Uncle Darcy continued the duel anyway, because he had no choice, and it went badly. My father died and Uncle Darcy was near death for many days. I remember at the funeral they had to carry him to the grave with a chair because he couldn't walk. That's my earliest memory of him.

"With my mother left penniless and widowed, she returned to her childhood home to wait until she could remarry, and Uncle Darcy looked upon the two 'Wickham children' and had compassion. He set up enormous trusts for us that my mother could never touch, allowing me to do as I please, and my sister to afford to marry a good man like Mr. Franklin. That is the whole truth, Mr. Turner. You must believe me; no man would make up such a terrible story about his own family."

Mr. Turner was silent; George refilled his glass for him, and noticed his hands were shaking. "I've made a terrible mistake."

"No – "

"I thought the worst of you."

"I am a potential suitor of your sister. You were doing your brotherly duty. A tad dramatically, but you were doing it." He finally allowed himself a sip, if only because his throat was so dry. "I pray you did not tell her."

"No. I went to you first – thank G-d. Now I don't know what to say, if anything."

"Tell her everything."

Mr. Turner picked his head up.

"She must know it from someone she trusts, so tell her every last word if you feel it necessary, because it is true ... and because I don't care much for telling it, especially to a lady. My father was a rake who brought about his own death, and made my uncle a murderer. If either of those things make me less of a man in your eyes, then I will go as far as to say you are an ill judge of character."

"I am an ill judge of gossip and character," Mr. Turner said. "You do care a great deal for my sister, in so short a time?"

"I've never felt the way around a woman as I do around her. Whether that is love, I am ill-qualified to judge, because I have never been in love. If she is not claimed by another man when I return from Scotland, I intend to pursue her, and discover the truth of my feelings. That, would you do me the favor to leave out of your story?"

Mr. Turner raised his glass. "I would." He swallowed it all in a single swig. "I won't take any more of your time, embarrassing myself and saying cross words about your family, Mr. Wickham, no matter how good your whiskey is. I pray you to forgive me."

"It was an honest mistake made with good intentions," George said. But it was cleared – the matter was cleared. "I would request another favor from you."

"You have it."

"Please say nothing of me to your mother, unless pressed. I ... don't quite know how to approach her if it comes to that, but I must do it on my own grounds."

"Of course. Of course." He stood, unsteady on his feet, and they shook on it. "Of course. I'm terribly sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Wickham."

"I am relieved that the matter was cleared up as quickly as possible," he said, and Mr. Turner was shown out, too shame-faced to see the host, who peered in the room.

"What was that about?" Mr. Franklin asked. "Everything all right?"

"I hope so," George said, and bowed. "Excuse me."

He returned to his room, taking the whiskey with him, though he didn't end up touching it again. Nor did he touch his book except to open it, and stare mindlessly at the chart of veins without any ability to focus, try as he might. He knew it was better not to let his mind wander, not to get wound up, not to make himself sick – but he could not.

He thought, _Maybe this is what love is like_.

********************************************

On Tuesday George Wickham's trunks were packed and loaded into the carriage that would take him north – first to Pemberley, then to the Kincaid castle, and then on to the University of St. Andrews, to study and sit for exams to complete his formal education. His mind was filled with things when a caller was announced not for himself but for his sister, and after he'd almost forgotten it, she knocked on the door. "I thought perhaps you might want to say goodbye before you leave."

"I'm not leaving yet."

"But Cynthia is."

"Miss Turner?" Of course – how many other Cynthias did he know? He dropped his notebook and tried not to run to the sunroom, where Miss Turner was standing, admiring the garden through the window.

He bowed, embarrassed to find them alone. "Miss Turner."

"Mr. Wickham." She turned and curtseyed. "Your sister thought you might want to say goodbye."

"Yes." But he didn't say it.

She picked up on the silence. She saw him wringing his hands! _Idiot!_ he thought. Finally she spoke. "Matthew spoke to me. He was cupshot so I knew it was bad."

He hung his head.

"I knew he was investigating you; there was no way I could do it and we couldn't get a straight story. I did not know the extent of it, or that he would confront you, or even that you would insist that he tell me your story in full, which was both cruel to him and admirable to me. On the other hand, he deserved a little punishment for believing rumors on the wind and making allegations. And for the record, Mr. Wickham, I do not care who your father was or what he did in life or how he died, except that I confess I care to know it because it is a part of you – if only a very small part. It is no consideration to your greater character to me.

"My mother makes every attempt to hide our humble origins, and no one can contradict her now that our father is dead – not that it would be in her interests to do so – but she came by sheer luck on a good marriage to someone who did not know her past and was too in love with her to care once he did know it. All of the so-called happiness, the luxuries we have been provided are built on a somewhat inconsequential lie, so I would say if anything, that we have something great in common."

He could not help it; he smiled just a little bit. "Thank you, Miss Turner."

"You didn't hit my brother, did you?"

"_No_. No, of course not."

"A lesser man would have. The opportunity was certainly there, with Matthew making a fool of himself, but you consider things, and you see the good in people." Now she looked a tad nervous. "And that is why I like you, Mr. Wickham. Not the only reason, but the best one."

He bowed. "Thank you."

"Will I see you again?"

"I hope so," he said. "And very soon." He wondered exactly how fast he could sit for the exams. He was calculating the days in his mind. "Goodbye, Miss Turner."

"Goodbye, Mr. Wickham." She held out her hand, and he took it and kissed the back of it. It was gloved so no one would faint from the scandal if they were even present, but he lingered just a moment before letting her go.

And then she curtseyed, and was gone. And he was only happy, because he still felt the warmth of her hand in his.

... Next Chapter - Morning Walk


	33. Morning Walk

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 33 – Morning Walk

After many farewells and three days on the road, George reached Derbyshire, where he caught the Darcy sisters on their way out. They were to Town, and so was their father.

"Anne has a suitor," Aunt Darcy told him. "A Colonel Jameson. He's just returned from Hanover with his regiment and Anne wants Darcy to meet him – and approve of him, of course."

"You're not curious?"

"I don't want to leave your grandfather alone." She smiled warily, but he knew she was putting on a good face for him, and he didn't press her. "We're all proud of you."

"Thank you, but I've not yet proven myself worthy of your acclaim."

"About that you are very wrong, I'm afraid," she said, and hugged him.

Uncle Darcy shook his hand. "Good luck. You shouldn't need a hint of it."

"Thank you, Uncle Darcy."

"Say hello to your aunt for me."

"Yes, Uncle Darcy."

His stop was cut short upon discovering that the younger Darcys had left a week before to return to their home in Lancashire. George would simply have to see them. He stayed only a single night in Pemberley, and the Bingleys visited.

"I heard news of a ball," Aunt Bingley said, "And Eliza."

"Yes. We introduced her to an acquaintance of ours, a Mr. Turner, whose character I will hesitantly vouch for. Beyond that I'm not informed."

"Keep your secrets, then. All I know is she hasn't written me about a specific dance partner since Charles left for Italy. And she's never written about a specific dance partner of _yours_."

"Don't torture him," Uncle Bingley said in response to George's blush.

"He's my nephew and I'll do as I please."

"It pleases me to see him happy," Uncle Bingley replied, "which he seems to be at the moment, if a little shy about it. I would say you're truly a Darcy, George, but I can't remember Darcy blushing."

"That's because he's so good at looking away at the appropriate moments."

"Yes, that's true."

George mumbled an acceptance of their goodwill and they let him go. And then there was Grandfather Bennet, still spry at four and eighty, if he stayed mainly in his chair. "Well, well, all the buzz has been about you, Mr. Wickham. You know that, of course."

"I was hoping otherwise."

"Ah, to be young and in love."

"That is perhaps jumping to conclusions."

Mr. Bennet lifted a trembling hand. "You have yet to deny it! But I do hope you find happiness. Do not repeat this, but I have never seen a grandson so deserving of it. We are made the men we are for a reason, and hopefully, G-d will send us a woman to help us make it through the day. And to hope even further, that woman will bear you many children, all of them girls. English law will laugh at you, but I seem to have done very well for myself."

"I'm sure Grandmother Bennet is very proud." George remembered her perhaps the best of the grandchildren besides Joseph Bennet, having lived in Longbourn between his father's death and his mother's remarriage.

"Five well-married daughters, she ought to be! She's having a ball in heaven now, announcing it to every angel she meets, and they are all secretly sick of it by now. Yes, that is how it must be. I can imagine it no other way."

He kissed his grandfather on the head to say goodnight, then helped him to his room, which was now on the ground floor of Pemberley. Only when the servants took him all the way to the bed did George release his hold on his grandfather's arm, and Mr. Bennet bid him well.

In the morning he endured another round of goodbyes before departing for Lancashire. Only a day's ride, he arrived in the evening, hungry and tired from the road. The doorman was not expecting him, but made way when he said who he was.

"George! We were not expecting you," Geoffrey Darcy said, rising from the card table he shared with Frederick Maddox. "On your way out?"

"I wanted to see my godson," he said. "And some other people. Geoffrey. Frederick. Where is everyone?"

"Georgie is sleeping, but it's all right – I'll see if she wants to be woken. The baby is with her. Alison is asleep, and so is Lady Heather."

"She has been sleeping a lot," Frederick said. "It could be all the walks we take ... or it could be something else. We might need a doctor's opinion."

George needed only a second to decipher his meaning. "I am not yet a doctor, so I cannot oblige you. Besides, don't you have someone for that?"

"Not in Lancashire."

"The Lancashire mid-wife is excellent. I'll send for her in the morning if you're concerned," Geoffrey said, and Frederick scoffed.

"She's not been ill, has she?"

"Ha! See? He is a doctor," Frederick pointed in triumph. "And no, she hasn't."

"Then I would wait. But I'm not a doctor and you shouldn't rely on my word."

"I'll see about Georgie," Geoffrey said, and left the room. George had a seat, but declined an offer of wine.

"So aren't you the talk of Derbyshire?"

"Please say I am not."

"You want me to lie to you? I would be happy to _oblige_, Doctor."

George groaned. "There's nothing formal about it."

"So it's _that_ kind of courtship."

"You know what I meant."

"I'll test the theory to see if you're caught – have you stopped seeing your whore?"

George threw Geoffrey's cards at Frederick, and refused to say anything else until Geoffrey returned.

********************************************

Mrs. Georgiana Darcy greeted him in a kimono, which more than adequately covered her, wiping sleep from her eyes. "Hello, George."

"Mrs. Darcy." He bowed. "You really didn't have to rise for me."

"No, no doubt I'll be up soon anyway. You might as well wake him for me."

George said not another word, and walked around the bed to the cradle that held his nephew and godson. "Hello, William." He removed from his pocket some items. "Your Cousin Franklin knitted you some mittens and socks, lest you catch cold up here." He pulled from the other pocket a stuffed dog. "I don't know if it's manly, but it's soft. Here." He set it beside the infant. "May I hold him?"

Georgie looked at the clock. "He'll be awake soon enough on his own. Go ahead."

He picked up the infant, who was larger than he remembered, but still very manageable. The motion woke William, who yawned and looked up at the mysterious man before him. "Hello, William. It's so good to see you. Have you been a good boy?"

"It depends on your definition of the word," Georgie said tiredly. "The light's not good here, but you can see, his eyes are turning green."

"I think Uncle Darcy will settle for green eyes," he laughed, and the action made William either alarmed or awake enough to be hungry, because he began to wail, and was passed to Georgie, who shushed him. "Thank you."

"You're staying the night I presume?"

"Yes. And some of tomorrow at the least."

"Good." She didn't bother to curtsey with a baby in her arms. "Goodnight, George."

"Goodnight, Georgiana."

On his way out he was shown to the guest room, where his trunk was opened and his bed prepared. He collapsed on it and had the best sleep he could remember.

********************************************

The traveling caught up with him, and in the morning George woke late, but still early enough for breakfast. "Mr. Darcy. Mr. Maddox. Lady Heather." He bowed, and looked at his young cousin, and bowed again. "Miss Darcy."

"Cousin Wickham!" She waved to him from her chair beside her father, a cinnamon bun still in hand.

Geoffrey looked up from the paper. "George."

"Mr. Wickham," Lady Heather said, rising to curtsey, and dragging her husband to stand with her. "It is so nice to see you. I'm glad we crossed paths before you went to Scotland."

"I'll only be there for a short while – hopefully. And where is the mistress of the house?"

"Morning walk," Geoffrey said.

"That's _your_ euphemism for it," Frederick said, and Geoffrey glared at him. "The more things change, the more things stay the same."

"Because you never learn," George said, and seated himself for breakfast. Frederick was too bleary-eyed for much animated conversation, and Lady Heather was clearly resisting needling him about Miss Turner, as her questions were all fairly vague. _Does everyone know everything about me?_

After a short while, Georgiana entered before the servant could announce her. "Steak," she said to the server, and he nodded in understanding. "Mr. Wickham. Pardon my appearance, but I must get something to eat. How's William?"

"Still sleeping, I presume. Nurse is watching him," Geoffrey answered.

She curtseyed to her guests, though it looked ridiculous in her weathered heavy men's kimono and Japanese wide pants. Her wooden shoes made a clacking sound as she took her seat at the opposite end of the table from her husband and the servant filled her glass with juice. She emptied the glass and it was refilled. Her short hair was uncovered and matted with dried sweat, and there was red swelling on the side of her face. The servant reappeared with a cold steak and helped her apply it to her face. Frederick snickered. "I'll give you that one. That was fair," she replied. "But not a word more out of you, Mr. Maddox."

"Such fine hospitality."

"Yes, enjoy it while you can because Heather is in the room."

Frederick looked to his wife for comfort, but she just hid her smile behind her napkin.

The morning was taken up by the children. The weather was fine, and they sat out on the veranda. Stewart Maddox was walking, if however unsteadily, and spent most of the time going between his mother and father's chairs. Georgiana reappeared later, changed into proper clothing and carrying William, with Alison trailing her skirt tails. The children developed a rhythm: Stewart was determined to poke at William and Alison was determined to protect her brother. Stewart didn't understand when she told him to go away, whether she said it in Japanese, English, or a nonsense language, so he kept trying. The whole effort was harmless, and served as an amusement to the adults.

It was only in the afternoon, when the children were being taken in for naps, that George finally caught Geoffrey alone, something he'd been trying for all morning. "Are you sure about letting her go out like that?"

"What, for propriety's sake? No one's around here that doesn't already know."

"For her health."

Geoffrey leaned against the window and sighed. "I wish she didn't hurt herself, but it's rare and never serious, and she wouldn't listen to me anyway. But the exercise is good for her, especially after William. It was hard for her even after Alison came. She's always struggled with childbirth and this seems to keep it at bay, so I'm not wont to stop her. You caught her on a bad morning – this is by far the worst injury I've seen and it's only a bruise."

"You have a great tolerance for her antics."

"Good thing I'm her husband, then."

George nodded. "I'm glad to hear she's doing well."

"I would say the same of you." He frowned. "Not precisely - there's no _she_ involved, but you know what I mean."

********************************************

As much as he wanted to, George did not linger in Lancashire. He stayed only another night and then said his goodbyes before continuing the long road up to Scotland.

He spent a night in the castle Kincaid, with his Uncle and Aunt Kincaid. Their son Robert was taller than he remembered, and they said yes, he was shooting up. His voice was deeper – he was no longer a child, or awkwardly making the transition into not being one. His younger sister, Rose, was still very much a girl and very happy to see her cousin George, who was such a rare guest. He was surprised how eager he was to be in school, something he could not have imagined three months before. It seemed like an endless amount of goodbyes for the trip, but he allowed Aunt Kincaid to hug him extra hard nonetheless. "I want everything to go well for you. You deserve it."

He hoped he did.

********************************************

_To Mr. Matthew Turner,_

_I hope you will be pleased to know that I am well settled here in St. Andrew's College. I will not bore you with the technical details of making arrangements for myself. I have to sit for two months to be allowed to take the exams, so with any luck I should be done in late December and back in Derbyshire for Christmas._

_I have no complaints except the food, which is terrible here. I indulged myself and bought some of the best whiskey I've ever had. Say the word and I will buy a bottle for you. Most Englishmen seem to be brandy or wine men, and I have not much of a stomach for the entire endeavor of drinking, but when I do, I much prefer the Scots' drink. Not their food, but their drink._

_It's colder than Paris, but smells better, and is much quieter. Alas! I must return to my studies, none of which you'd want to hear about, I assure you._

_I would inquire after your health, and of course the health of both your sisters and your mother._

_Sincerely,_

_George Wickham_

********************************************

_To Mr. Wickham of St. Andrews,_

_Jolly ho! It snowed here in London yesterday. We were all taken by surprise and most of it is already a slushy mess. And yes, by G-d, send some whiskey! Anything to warm me up. I'll compensate you for your efforts when you return, I promise you that. _

_There is not much to be said of bachelor life here at the moment, nothing that you do not already know or at least know of, but we are all snowed in and venture out only to clubs. _

_As to my sisters, they are both well, and my mother, whom I asked without mentioning you by name. You will have to cross that bridge sooner or later, and I refuse to do it for you. She's my mother! _

_Excuse the extreme impropriety of me allowing Cynthia to read our private correspondences. She is not an easy woman to bargain with; if you do love her, you have some work ahead of you. (Do not say that I said that in your next letter or I will not show it to her.) She is in good spirits and very happy with the terribly boring books you recommended to her. Thomas Paine? Sounds painful! I know, an awful joke, but you'll forgive me so long as I keep up this correspondence between us._

_Sincerely,_

_Matthew Turner_

********************************************

_To Mr. Matthew Turner,_

_I assume the package arrived with this note, or you should run out and catch that courier before he makes off with all of your whiskey. Between the bottles is a book of Scottish poetry. I can't understand it, but it came highly recommended. With Christmas approaching, I think it should be obvious to you as to whom it should be delivered as a gift. I do not know if there will be letters before Christmas, but they send it by rail now and I'm told repeatedly those don't freeze as easily as roads. Nonetheless it is only so many weeks away and I didn't want to chance it._

_There is no more whiskey drinking for me; my time is devoted to my books now. I sit for my exams soon, and they themselves take a full week, so I should be concerned not to mess up on the first day. _

_My good wishes and a Happy Christmas,_

_George Wickham_

********************************************

_Dear Isabel,_

_Thank you for the package. I know I have not asked for food before, but you have not been this far north. The only thing good is the lamb, which is excellent, but one cannot eat lamb day and night._

_I am doing well. You know I sit next week, so by the time you read this I should be inking my pen for some very long essays on subjects "only I could find interesting" as perhaps you or anyone else would put it. I am a little nervous, but I must confess it is nothing to last spring. Never have I been less anxious about examinations. I doubt I'll feel that way for the physician's exam, but that is in the future and I do not have the spare time to worry over it. One thing at a time._

_Tell Edward I loved his signature. Make sure when you let him put his hands in ink to keep his hands far away from his mouth until they're cleaned, and no, I don't think you should be the least bit surprised that blue ink stains the skin. It should be faded and gone in a few weeks – probably by the time you receive this letter. As much as I will always treasure the handprint, for the sake of his skin, one is enough. _

_The whiskey is for Mr. Franklin, because I'm not hauling it to Pemberley. Your present will wait until the proper time. Wish me luck, and I look forward to seeing you at Christmas._

_Your brother,_

_George._

********************************************

_Dear Professor Maddox,_

_Thank you for the sleeping powder. I do not need any more for this month; I have barely used half of it. I am doing much better – that or I am simply passing out on my books. I am unsure of the real answer._

_Happy Christmas,_

_George Wickham_

... Next Chapter - The Courtship of Anne Darcy


	34. The Courtship of Anne Darcy

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 34 – The Courtship of Anne Darcy

While George made his way to Scotland, the Darcys made their way south. While Darcy would have preferred to take Elizabeth, she wanted to stay with her father, and the trip would only be as long as it needed to be – for him to approve of this man Anne met over the summer or not approve.

A letter arrived while Geoffrey was still at Pemberley to inform him that Colonel Jameson's regiment had returned to London. Geoffrey had never met the man, but at least this colonel (both he and his father thought likely, a second son who needed Anne's inheritance) knew some propriety. Geoffrey promptly passed on the not-so-subtle hint, and Anne was a day begging her father before resorting to the ultimate strategy: getting her mother involved.

Fitzwilliam Darcy grumbled and looked out the window of the coach. Eight and twenty years and he was still helpless when in the grip of Lizzy's spell. He was lucky she used her power so wisely, he supposed, as some consolation to himself.

He was thorough in the discussion with Anne. She had met the colonel only a few times, but the last time it was in the park, and they spent hours together, talking and walking together in full view of everyone else and without an ounce of impropriety about the whole thing, except maybe that she laughed too loudly, Anne said. He was a perfect gentleman, the second son (he guessed correctly) of an earl who'd gone to Cambridge and then bought his way into a good army position. He had seen only a few serious combats and they were all in the colonies in Africa, but now he was promoted and would only be doing training sessions in England, possibly Scotland. All of her praise was glowing, but Darcy considered: Anne was raised to be selective, and she did not give her heart away easily because she was scared, but because she was sure of herself. She wanted to marry for true love and had the means to do so. How could he but not oblige her?

Their first night in Town, Eliza and Charles Bingley came over. Darcy was pleased with both of them. Eliza was going on about some Mr. Turner, whose name seemed familiar to him somehow, and after so many years of her being too worried over her brother to have open eyes for men, it was a relief to hear. Charles was still subdued, but getting over whatever torrid romance he'd had in Italy that ended so badly. Maybe it took longer for him because he had his mother and father's soft hearts, and Darcy decided to give his nephew a bit of leeway on that one. He was only disappointed to learn (through Sarah, after the Bingleys left) that the breach between Charles and Edmund had not been mended, which was probably why Edmund and Lucy made their excuses for that particular evening.

Which brother should he approach? He needed Elizabeth's counseling. He needed someone, but they were all away. He'd never spoken to Bingley directly on the matter after learning of it. Elizabeth told him by way of Jane, and made him swear not to push his brother-in-law, so he did not. Jane was upset, but they decided as parents not to move on it yet, and give their children a chance to act like the adults they should be first. Surely something would happen by Christmas. Something _had_ to happen by Christmas.

He took his daughters to the theater, much as he despised them being gawked at, but they were all eager to go and he could not say no to them. Also, it would be good to dust off the Darcy box tickets. Maybe he _was_ a homebody.

They called on the Franklins, and Darcy held Edward for a good amount of time, noting the boy's progress to the beaming father. Mr. Franklin had seemed from the start to be a well-tempered man and a good match for the former Isabel Wickham, and the child only seemed to solidify their marriage, as children often did when both parents were involved. Like her own mother, Isabel was a natural. Though Lydia Bradley could be cruel to her children when they were older, she was certainly good with them as infants – he could not deny a woman who had birthed eight children that.

Isabel told him all about George, who was doing so well, and besotted over Miss Turner (_there_ was the connection!), who was a woman of twenty thousand pounds and some social standing, as her father had been a court justice. She was learned, kind, and could actually talk to George and make him respond, so in Isabel's decided opinion it was a match. He politely reminded her that a lot could happen between now and when George returned to Town in January, but otherwise let her speak, because there was hardly a way to get a word in edgewise.

The other Bingleys paid call on their uncle and cousins. Lucy separated and went with the girls, and Edmund shared a drink with his uncle, and inquired after everyone in Derbyshire at great length, which Darcy measured as a wonderful way of not talking much about himself. Edmund Bingley was difficult to assess and always had been. He kept his thoughts and moods closely-guarded; he was stiff in company if they did not interest him and animated if they did, and sometimes seemed to be going through the motions.

After he waited long enough, Darcy said, "And how is your brother?"

"He seems to be doing well."

"Neither of us like to ramble," Darcy said, despite how much of it had been done, "so I will get to the point. Whatever has come between you and Charles, it should no longer exist by Christmas. I will not stand for it."

Edmund frowned. "It's complicated."

"Yes, life is very complicated, full of facts and figures and calculations. We both know that. You're willing to discuss it at length. That does not qualify as an excuse." He did not let Edmund respond, even though his mouth was open. "Nothing is an excuse when it comes to family, especially someone like a brother. I expect it resolved before you return to Derbyshire."

"How do you know he's not responsible?"

"I'm not saying he isn't, but that does not allow you to sit on your heels."

His nephew said no more, and he pushed him no further on the subject. It was only a nephew, but the order was still an _order_, and he had a feeling there would be some attempt to meet his requirements. "You're my nephew, and so I expect great things from you. You've never disappointed me before, and I have no doubt that you will not in the future."

Edmund nodded and the conversation was over.

An appropriate amount of time after their arrival passed before Colonel Jameson requested an audience with Mr. Darcy. He was tall, but not excessively so, and had light hair, reminding Darcy of another young colonel who was now his earl cousin. He smiled. "Colonel Jameson."

"Mr. Darcy, thank you for the audience."

He waved the idea away and sat down at his desk as the butler poured them brandy. The Darcy sisters were at Bond Street, shopping for the holiday. "I have been ... excessively informed of your acquaintance with my daughter. Very enthusiastically."

The young colonel blushed. "Then you must realize – well – May I have your permission to court your daughter, sir?"

"Allow me to confirm a few things first." Of course he would say yes, but let the man sweat it out. "You are the younger son of an earl?"

"Yes, I'm the second son, actually. My youngest brother is only nine though."

"And you went to Cambridge."

"Yes. I could have gone right to the army, I suppose, but my mother was very insistent before she died that I have a full education, so my father supported me through Cambridge, and purchased the commission for me."

"Does he support you now?"

"No, sir. He gave me money when I graduated, which I've mainly saved and invested. I live off my army pay. For a single man it's a modest amount, and I wanted to travel a bit, so it's been an agreeable situation so far."

"And your older brother? Is he married?"

"No. He is not much older than me, so he is still a bachelor. My father wishes him to marry, but he's not pressed him about it yet. He's only six and twenty after all, and is going to come into a vast fortune, so he's in no rush."

Darcy nodded. "Who would take care of your younger brother, if your father died?"

"What, sir?"

"It is just speculation. I'm curious." _And you have to answer me, so there_. He wanted to know something of the man other than the answers to the questions.

Jameson did have a sip of his drink. "I suppose my brother would support him financially – there would be a settlement in the will, I know there is for both of us."

"But who would care for him?"

"It depends. If my brother was married, certainly, and G-d forbid my father passed away, Michael would stay in the family home until he came into his money. But my brother is not married, and lives the bachelor lifestyle, so it might not be suitable. I suppose I wouldn't want to leave Michael with a Nurse – so, I guess, I would take him in, and my brother would pay, if I had a better home for him."

"If you were married?"

"Yes."

He knew what he wanted to know, and returned to the normal questions. "If you were to marry my daughter, and come into her money, I assume you would leave your regiment."

"That would be best for a family, yes. I know officers who have wives, who are most unhappy with them, or so they say when they return from leave."

"You have my permission," Darcy said, "and you may call on her in London when me or Mrs. Darcy is present, or one of her uncles – someone of authority. You understand?"

"Of course, sir."

"If you are in the north, you may call on her in Derbyshire, but not during Christmas. I imagine you have plans."

He smiled uneasily. "I am required at home, yes." It brightened when he realized what was just said. "Thank you, sir. I admire Miss Darcy very much. It is an honor."

"I hope you do," Darcy said, and they shook on it.

After the young colonel left, Darcy had half a glass of brandy – far beyond his normal habit for the daytime – to steel himself for the screaming and squealing that would come with the announcement when his daughters returned. He was not proven wrong, and Anne stopped long enough to hug her father with all of her might.

"Thank you, Papa. Thank you! You've made me so happy. He really is a sweet man, when you get to know him."

"That is the point of courtship – to know someone better," he said, not as sternly as he would have liked, because he felt a lightness at heart when faced with three happy daughters. _Lizzy is right; you do have a preference towards daughters, Darcy, for all of your fussing about an heir_. Which reminded him to pen a letter to Geoffrey as well as Elizabeth, and purchase gifts for William and Alison as soon as possible.

The next day, Colonel Jameson paid call on his eldest daughter. The weather was not wonderful, but they sat in the courtyard anyway for some privacy, apparently unaware that Darcy could hear them from his study if the window was opened. They knew he could see them, but that was a given.

"Give your sister space," he told Cassandra, who was hovering near the window.

"Then how am I to learn anything?"

"By asking her later."

"But you're listening."

"I am seated some distance away, if you did not notice."

He did convince her to leave, no doubt to find somewhere else to spy on them. He would not allow himself to eavesdrop on every word, but he caught snippets of their conversation, at least the part where Colonel Jameson was talking about his boyhood, much of which was spent on a family holding in Northern Ireland. Darcy did not allow himself to continue with specifics; he shut the window. Anne's animated features were enough solace for him when he felt a sudden loneliness he could not describe, not just for Elizabeth, but for his daughter, even when she was right in front of him.

********************************************

Over the next month, Darcy saw a lot of the colonel, and had him for dinner several times, and learned all the facts with his own ears. They attended the theater only once; Anne did not want the man she had intentions for to suddenly be infamous. He also confessed to being a bit lost on amusements in London. His brother was a member of all the right clubs so he had been to them, but Jameson was not. He was more of an outdoorsman, he said, from his youth and his army days. He took Anne to the zoo for the new exhibit of animals from the West Indies, with Sarah as a chaperone, and she reported that he knew almost every bird there, and some of the turtles, but they were hard to tell apart.

Elizabeth was encouraging.

_Dearest husband,_

_I am pleased with the news of Colonel Jameson. I never doubted you would disappoint Anne, but I fear you are in danger of even liking him. The way you describe him, I can only think of Colonel Fitzwilliam. If the match is a success, we must at the very least write the Fitzwilliams, if not invite them to the wedding._

_An outdoorsman and family man? He is either suitable to you now or is clever to have discovered your preferences, and so Anne must be in on the ruse, and she would only do so if she was really in love, so either way you've won. Since we instilled that silly notion of marrying for love in her head (I do not know where we got it from), she's passed over so many suitors I cannot help but worry a little. If she is happy, then I am happy._

_I would disrupt that happiness to have you home, as I miss you dearly (to say nothing of my daughters!), but I appreciate your understanding on this matter. I would love to be there, but I shall meet him soon enough I think, and I am needed here. Jane and Bingley are over almost every night so it does not seem so lonely for all of us, but I almost wish my father would stop talking of Mama so constantly. I do not remember it being so frequent in the past – perhaps you can do your own assessment when you return. I know we are blessed to have him this long. Perhaps I have taken that for granted over the years._

_Mr. and Mrs. Franklin arrived safely with Edward, who is a dear. He so does love to sit on a lap, usually his father's Isabel says. She made a very good match with Mr. Franklin. There is no denying that. He is devoted to her and their son. Papa is thrilled to see another great-grandchild, of course. They are all settled in for Christmas._

_Speaking of the holiday, I was wondering if we ought to invite Dr. Maddox and Caroline this year. If they are hosting Emily and Mr. Jordan then probably not, but if they are alone or only have their other son and grandson, we must invite them. It is so very hard on Caroline, having Danny still abroad. She wrote that they received a letter last week, but it was in Japanese, and Her Highness Princess Nadezhda had to translate it. Danny wrote that it is because of Japanese customs, which sends letters through faster if the customs officials can read them, but she suspects otherwise. It could be that his sight is leaving him, and he had someone else write the letter. He did not mention it beyond saying that he had a successful cataract surgery in their trading port; I've forgotten the name. That in of itself is amazing, but still she worries. How could she not?_

_Please consider it and try to discover if they are alone this Christmas or not. Either way, we ought to do something special for them. I do not want it to get lost in all of the gifts for children and grandchildren. It is important to me and I'm sure it is important to you._

_I count each day until your return._

_Your loving wife,_

_Elizabeth Darcy_

He did as she requested. He extended the invitation to the Maddoxes, but they were roosting in Chesterton with Emily and Frederick, and their new son, daughter, and grandson. They appreciated the offer. He also purchased for their house a very nice music box that played more than a simple tune of a few seconds. It would be costly, but with luck, it would arrive just in time.

That was the best he could do. There were other things to prepare, and shopping to do, which he found especially exasperating when accompanying his daughters to Bond Street. It was something Elizabeth usually did and he never before had chance to appreciate the effort of guiding them from store to store and making sure they stopped while they were still standing, but he thought, _I had the chance now, as I might not have it again_. And he looked at Anne, but she smiled at him, so he could only find it in himself to smile back.

... Next Chapter - My Brother's Keeper


	35. My Brother’s Keeper

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 35 – My Brother's Keeper

Charles Bingley III was a busy man. He was alone in the Bingley house with his sister, and that meant a lot of chaperoning, because Eliza was always finding ways to "run into" Mr. Turner, who was as eager to make his acquaintance and impress him as he was his sister. That was certainly a good sign, was it not?

He thought there was a bitter irony that he found Matthew Turner handsome; thankfully it was only a mild attraction that faded as their friendship grew. Mr. Turner was like Charles would be if he were happy – friendly, outgoing, eager for new adventures but not the devilish kind, and intelligent but not too academic about it. Charles also saw some of Miss Turner, who walked with him while chaperoning her own brother. She had a certain protectiveness over him even though he was older. He was less mature: he was a man, and he had not her seriousness, though she had a harsh wit when she wanted it. She was so like George; he hoped that match was successful, and tried to actually keep him out of the conversation, lest something slip about the events of the past year in George's life. Oh, how would he ever tell her? _But that's for George to decide_, he thought.

He had enough deciding to do on his own. He saw Dr. Creswell twice more. Once they went over some of the things said previously, because Charles needed to hear them again, and argue for or against them. He could not see himself married – yet. He could not abandon the possibility either. But what would he say to a wife? Wouldn't he be cheating on her, even if he remained loyal to the marriage? Would he ever be happy himself, with no physical satisfaction, or would it come in time and practice? Dr. Creswell had only speculations, but they were good speculations, and he was so pleasant when he said them that his notions were an easier pill to swallow.

The second time, Charles was simply too depressed. He was out at a club and somewhere at some point the whiskey became gin and he spent the night in the bed of another club member, who was far less concerned about it than he was and surprised at his uptight reaction the next morning. It did not end as horribly as it could have, as they were both invested in keeping each other's secret, but the man put him down and made sure that was clear, for thinking anything less of himself.

"He was so brave," Charles said. "So brave; to just carry on. But I know it will end badly. He'll be exposed or he'll get some disease or his family will cast him out – that's the way it always ends. Except for you, Doctor."

Simon Creswell nodded. "I was very lucky, but when Gerard died, I felt like I couldn't mourn him, as a spouse mourns their dead partner. I wished for a moment I were a woman, so that I could be in black and all that, and be a widow, because I felt like I was, but had none of the consolation. If Agatha dies before me, the guests will line up to pat me on the back and acknowledge that I have lost something great, and I will have."

They did not discuss it further. It was too painful a territory for the moment, and Dr. Creswell told him of his Uncle Maddox as a young man, though he said it was difficult to tell most of the stories without some gruesome medical detail. "We were surgeons from beginning to end - except when we were drunk. Sometimes _when_ we were drunk. Every one of us in that group was there because we couldn't afford better and we knew it, so we drowned our sorrows and then a man would send for a doctor. I don't think a single one of us could say we never performed some operation or inspection tipsy. If Daniel tells you otherwise, he's lying, because I saw him do it. And I didn't say a G-ddamn word! I feel like he still owes me a favor for that one."

They did not meet again before the Christmas season. It was a busy time, and Charles had so much to think on. Dr. Creswell's ideas were hard ones, but they had weight. If he could only imagine for himself some happiness, he could maybe be happy, and put on a better show at Christmas.

He did tell his sister about the doctor, but not his name or his connection to Dr. Maddox. The details were sparse, but she listened. She always listened to him. "You want children, don't you? It's not good enough to just be an uncle."

"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe it is good enough."

"When you can have more, why should it be 'good enough'? Why should you settle for less happiness? I won't stand for it."

"It's not so simple – "

"Of course not. There's a woman involved."

He glared at her and she just giggled. And yet it made him happy that she could laugh about it. "If you marry – "

"I'll never leave you, even if I physically am not in the same house. You already know that, so don't bother asking." She pretended to be offended, and he grinned, and was relieved.

********************************************

Before everyone set out for Derbyshire or Chesterton for Christmas, there was one final important letter. George Wickham was now a graduate of St. Andrews Medical College. He passed every examination with the highest marks possible, and would receive a special honor with his diploma – and all in time for Christmas.

The master of Pemberley was first to return home, his daughters in tow, and he had little time to even speak to his wife before he had to discuss preparations with the housekeeper and butler. The four of them sat in conference for several hours and sorted everything out before Darcy and Elizabeth retired. Darcy was undressed by Mr. Reed, and joined his wife in her bedchamber. "I got the Maddoxes something. You heard they are staying in Chesterton?"

"Yes. They wrote me that they appreciated your offer."

"We bought them a music box. I don't know how it works, only that the one in the store did, and it should be there by Christmas."

"A music box! Does it play well?"

"It's not a pianoforte, but it plays several different tunes, all of which were remarkably pleasant for a metal device."

"If only it could recite books."

"I thought of that. They said there's no such device."

She pulled him close and kissed him on his somewhat scratchy chin. "You were very thoughtful."

"I needed something to distract me from the prospect of giving away a daughter."

"So she is in love!" she squealed. "And try as you might, you cannot find any reason to disapprove of the man."

"Not _yet_." He softened. "She is very happy, and he's a pleasant fellow. Unless his brother dies, they'll live off her inheritance."

"You know as well as I that money cannot buy happiness."

"If happiness comes in the form of a music box, I would disagree with you."

********************************************

Charles and Eliza Bingley were greeted by a very enthusiastic set of parents. "You must tell me all about him," their mother said to Eliza.

"And eventually, you must tell _me_," their father said, half-serious. He was kept informed, and his informal consent was given by post for an informal courtship, but he had yet to meet the man. "Charles, you look well."

His father rarely said harsh things, but he also never lied, so maybe he did look well. "So do you, Father." He looked down at the primate clinging to his father's shoulder. "As do you, Monkey."

Monkey squeaked, which was what he usually did when someone said his name – or anything else of interest happened.

"Georgie is due by week's end," their mother said. "William is doing very well, and so is she. Alison is no doubt looking forward to seeing a certain someone."

"Christmas, her birthday, and her godfather around?" Charles said. "I never thought I'd say it, but we may just be spoiling her."

"Edmund and Lucy are coming by tomorrow," his father told them, "so when Georgie arrives, our family will be complete."

"Papa! We're three miles from Pemberley."

"I am aware of the distance," he replied. "I just want us all to be together again, so rare these days. I'm a grandfather now, so I get to say things and people respectfully do them. If Mr. Bennet's taught me anything, it's that."

********************************************

Charles was in the parlor, listening to his sister practice her pianoforte and turning the pages for her, when Edmund and Lucy Bingley arrived. The whole family came to greet them, though Mrs. Lucy Bingley was not so thrilled to meet Monkey, with his aggressive greeting tactics. When he took up his perch on the chandelier, she regained her composure, and so did he.

Edmund and Charles shook hands, and even spoke three words to each other (probably total) over the day and dinner. Edmund had always been quiet, and Lucy was raving about Kirkland (never having seen it), so he had some excuse.

Unsure what to do, Charles hesitated for only a day, only to be beaten to the punch. Edmund cornered him in the library, and shut the door. It was the first time they were alone together, and it could only mean one thing. Edmund finally dropped all the pretenses of being pleased to see him, but he did not look as comfortable with his stern position as in their last meeting. "Charles."

"Edmund."

As usual he was to the point. "Uncle Darcy says I have to make up with you by Christmas."

"Did Father say anything?"

"No, but he's going to, if I don't." Edmund tried to soften his tone, which was always very conspicuous when he did it, because it didn't come easily to him. "I heard you've ... improved."

"I'm seeing a doctor," Charles said. "It's been enlightening."

"He's treating you, then."

"No. There is no treatment, and no cure. It's not a sickness – or some kind of curse of weak will. I may not be as strong as you, but I can make my own decisions."

"And yet you've made them so poorly – "

"No," he growled. _Where was this anger coming from?_ "I made them because I wanted to, and maybe it was right and maybe it was wrong, and people got hurt, but I wouldn't have made them differently. Except what happened in Italy. Other than that, I would not take it back." _Hell, where was this courage coming from?_ "I loved Guy. I think I always will."

This was not the conversation Edmund wanted. "I wouldn't admit that if I were you."

"But I'm not you, and I never was, so that should hardly concern me."

"Then what? You've made no progress and have no intention to reform? This doctor business is a front?"

"It is not! He's a good man!" Charles shouted, then lowered his tone. "I want to change my life, yes. I want to find ... something where I can still be part of this family and be happy and not a disappointment, but I will not use the word reform. It's not that simple."

"The very definition of what you do – "

"What business of yours is it, what I do in privacy? Do I ask you about your life? Did I ever escort you to brothels before you married? I've passed no judgment on you or your choice of a wife. Society says you can pass judgment on me, but if you wish to look down on me, keep it to yourself. For the sake of the family."

"I won't lie to Father!"

Charles seethed. "He's not asking you anything. If he did ever ask you why I seemed so unhappy, you could say it was some sort of melancholia over my place in life and not be wrong, and not break his heart. Even you don't have it in you to be that cruel."

"I'm not cruel."

"You're being cruel and you know it."

"I'm being stern. I have to be. Someone had to pick you out of the gutter."

"Yes – and it wasn't you. You would have been on the opposite end of the world if you could have managed it."

Edmund shut his mouth before he could respond to that.

"You didn't show an ounce of sympathy when I begged you not to have the stable boy fired. Who knows what happened to him, with no employment and no references? When I was in London, trying to drink myself to death and Eliza was crying, you were doing your transactions and your ledgers and your calculations about money. If anything, you should have shown some care for Eliza, who had no one to confide in who might know the reason behind my mysterious misery other than you. I may not be blameless in this, but _she_ is."

His brother didn't respond to the allegations directly. He looked around uncomfortably, then said, "I wanted this to go well."

"You wanted me to apologize and say I was wrong and you were right, and I deserved every harsh word because it would be the only thing that would make me reform. Well, I won't. I won't apologize to you. Maybe to Geoffrey, who found me half-dead and had to make me ill so the poison wouldn't go to my heart. Maybe to Georgiana, for putting her through the experience of having her brother near death by his own hand. To you, I don't owe any apology, except that I had not the courage to bring an end to it before now." He sighed. "I do want us to be brothers again. The way it was before. But I cannot give up my principles to do so."

"So you ask me to give up mine?"

He had a point. "Keep your judgments, then. Keep them to yourself, which you're so apt to do anyway, and remember that I am not just a godless sodomite. I'm also Charles Bingley III, twin brother to Elizabeth Bingley, and your older brother. And I love you, and always will, whether I'm in tears over your rejection or I just want to smack you upside the head. I'm sorry, Edmund."

Overwhelmed, Edmund replied, "I'm sorry, Charles."

Maybe he had not convinced his brother; he had not expected to, but it felt good to embrace him, and have some small reassurance that the worst was over.

********************************************

Dinner that evening was noticeably different, as was the after-dinner entertainment. Charles and Edmund played cards while their parents listened to Eliza and Lucy perform a duet. They talked only a little, as much as was required for cards, but that was the way it had always been for them.

When he thought them all retired, Charles was in the library, choosing a new book, when the butler told him his father wanted him in the study. "Hello Monkey," he said, greeting the first living thing he saw. Monkey squawked and scurried back into the room and up onto the desk. "Father."

His father removed his spectacles. "Charles. It's late; have a seat." He closed the ledger in front of him, and put it aside, beneath the jade lion paperweight. His desk was a clutter of Oriental artifacts and business paperwork. "I know there's been trouble between you and Edmund."

"It's been resolved."

"I see that, and I'm proud. Your mother is proud. She wanted me to say something to you, but I wasn't quite sure what to say. Should I be congratulating you on not squabbling with your brother for reasons neither of you will enlighten me of? I don't think so." He scratched his head. "I know ... well, I'm not oblivious to what's been going on in the house in Town, though I'm glad it's not a repeat of your depression the first time you came home. You were so miserable; I thought maybe it was better if you left again, if that would make you happy. Jane said I should say something, but I always resisted.

"I'll tell you a story that I would prefer you not repeat. I met Darcy my first year at Cambridge, but then he graduated and I was alone. I was fine with my studies, but I got into some trouble ... with the usual antics of University. Drinking and gambling, more of the latter. I drew down my entire allowance, and was still in debt and still gambling. I didn't know what to do. Darcy was traveling abroad, and going to my father was admitting defeat when he so badly wanted me to succeed.

"I went home for Christmas, and was in a foul mood whenever my parents were out of the room. Louisa was not home that year, being newly married to Mr. Hurst and wanting to spend time with his family. It was Caroline who asked me what was wrong, though she wasn't halfway as polite. She never approved of my antics, the way Georgiana doesn't approve of Edmund's – in a loving way. I broke down and told her everything. I was supposed to be the big man who would inherit a fortune and establish the Bingley name, and I was crying on my sister's shoulder. She was still very harsh with me, but she gave me the money to pay off my debts on the condition that I did so and retired from my newfound profession, and she didn't go running to Father like I suspected she might. She didn't even tell Louisa.

"I did as I was told, and got out with my debts paid, and slowly paid her back when my new allowance arrived. I was so afraid of disappointing not only my parents, but also the one person who _knew_. I ended a few friendships that were not in my best interest, which was not easy for me to do, but I did it and began my final year fresh, which is why I've not many friends from University beyond Darcy.

"Immediately upon my graduation, my father began to school me in all matters related to family and the money involved behind a household. I did not know then that he was sick, but I figured it out quickly. One night, which he chose for reasons I'll never know, when we were totally alone, the conversation veered and he told me he'd known about my middle year antics. Not only did he have access to my accounts and could see my spending habits, but he was not oblivious to my behavior at Christmas. He said Mother was worried sick, but he chose not to intervene, to see if I would stand on my own feet like I ought to – and if not, yes, he would bail me out, because I was in many respects still a boy. Caroline never told him, but he knew she lent me the money; you understand your grandfather was exceptionally good with money and could keep every account the family had at every store and in every company in his head. He told me that night that he was pleased that I turned to someone, and that it was someone my age, not my parents. Even if it was my sister, it was still not him, and I had to show her I could make good on her offer and pay her back, and that was a far more mature thing to do. In the end he was more relieved about how I'd taken the steps to recovery than that I'd taken them, because it showed the man I would become, not the boy I was.

"I know you have some troubles, Charles. I don't care to speculate; they're your problems and if you wanted my opinion, you'd have asked for it long ago. Instead you turned to your sisters and your cousin, and someday, I hope, you'll turn to a wife like I look to your mother for reassurance – and occasionally, guidance. However long it takes, it is the process that is more important, however it pains us to see you unhappy."

"I'm not unhappy," Charles said, more because he couldn't think of what else to say. "I was – very unhappy. I cannot explain why – I cannot properly describe it, even to myself. But now ... I don't know. I'm trying."

"We all have a _little_ trouble finding our way." His father smiled. "Some day I'll have the courage to tell you of my disastrous courtship with your mother, though the long story made short is that it ended for the best, obviously." He added, "You can talk to me, if you want to."

"I know, Father." And he believed it, but he never would. Hell would freeze first. "Thank you, Father."

"Thank your grandfather," he replied, "who would, I think, be proud of you."

... Next Chapter - The Progidal New Returns


	36. The Prodigal Nephew Returns

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 36 – The Prodigal Nephew Returns

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy the Younger were greeted as if they had been gone years and not months. Their family had changed. Alison was taller, and her words clearer. William had a full head of his father's wild brown hair, his mother's green eyes, and a love of his latest accomplishment – sitting up.

"Just like you," Darcy said to his son. "You used to go from one end of my study to another while I did my correspondences. He'll be doing it before long."

Geoffrey looked at his wife and blushed. Georgie was thinner, happier, and had more energy than even a few months before. She paid immediate call to Kirkland and they invited her for dinner the following night, but Pemberley was her home now. It was where her husband was, and where her children would spend a good sum of their childhoods.

Perhaps no one expressed more joy than Mr. Bennet, ever eager to see another "great-something" as he put it. "Three great-grandchildren. A regular Methuselah I am." Alison was too big to sit in his lap, but she sat next to him and told him all about her lessons, even the ones she didn't care for. She liked music but not calligraphy. She wanted to play her shamisen but no one could teach her.

"You probably can read better than I can," he said, "unless the print is very, very large." William, sitting on his knee, began to cry, and Alison picked her brother up and escorted him to her mother, who was sitting in the other room with Anne.

"She's very responsible with him," Geoffrey said.

Mr. Bennet turned to him. "What was that?"

"I said 'she's very responsible with him.' Her brother."

"Ah. Yes, she is." He pointed to his ear. "The doctor says I should use a horn, but it seems such a pain to give one of my arms up to holding it in the air. It tires easily. I much prefer silence to indignity."

Geoffrey said, "I know the feeling." He rarely used his ear horn, even when he ought to. His pride would only suffer so much. After all, he was a Darcy.

Then there was the joy of sleeping in his own bed, the one he had spent most of his life in, with his wife by his side. Lancashire was _their_ home, but he remained unwaveringly faithful to Pemberley. After William was fed and rocked to sleep, Georgiana crawled back in bed and he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"I saw Charles," she said, not that it was in question. "He looks well."

"Is Edmund speaking to him?"

"He was there and he did, so I assume so. I'll learn more tomorrow night."

"How are your parents?"

"It's strange, to hear them talk about being grandparents. Like they wanted it."

"You didn't notice?"

"I can't imagine being ... that old, to be blunt about it. To be a grandparent."

"It's a good way off. Twenty years, maybe. A lifetime."

"Or never, if you have your way about it with Alison."

"I've never said anything about Alison marrying. I haven't even thought about it."

"You'll be just like your father and you know it."

He kissed her exposed shoulder. "You're probably right."

********************************************

In the chambers of the current mistress of Pemberley, Fitzwilliam Darcy stoked the fire one last time before taking up his side of the bed. Only then did Elizabeth put down her book, but kept it open in her lap. "Georgiana looks well."

"Georgiana?"

"Yes, your niece."

"I was merely commenting on – "

"The order of my observations, yes. They're all well, but you know how hard the last child was on her."

"They lost the last child."

"Alison was hard, too."

"Alison required a certain sacrifice of personal pride."

She shut her book very loudly. "What does that mean?"

"That – uhm, you know how she was, before marriage."

"You're going to say 'wild' but you shouldn't."

"It would be an accurate statement."

"It does not mean you should make it."

Seeing she was serious, he softened. "I mean she's grown into motherhood. It's meant to be a compliment."

"Then I will take it for her and spare her the embarrassment and you her reaction," she said. "A woman does not go from being a person to a mother."

"That was not – entirely what I was implying."

"If anything, Japan should have proved that."

"What did she learn there, anyway? What was the sacred enlightenment she gained? Forgive me, but I'm ignorant of it, which isn't very good for an uncle to be."

"She learned how to kill people with her touch."

He stopped fluffing his pillow. "Oh."

"I have it on good authority."

"Brian Maddox is not a good authority."

"I was speaking of our son."

"Oh." He frowned. "Perhaps I ought to be more careful what I say around her."

She kissed him on the cheek. "If you haven't learned that by now, I daresay you never will."

********************************************

The Franklins' visit gave William a playmate, though neither of them were old enough to know what to make of each other. They were not well and truly settled until the man of the hour arrived, his overgrown hair wet with snow and still trailing books behind him in sacks and trunks, kept better than his clothes. George Wickham was slimmer than when he left two months before, which he immediately attributed to the Scottish diet and welcomed a plate of hot food despite the hour of his arrival.

The dinner party had been just then breaking up, but there would be none of that now, as everyone hugged and kissed and welcomed the graduate. And of course there had to be a toast to a job well done, and all challenges overcome. The physician's exam lay ahead of him, but he could have passed it two years ago. He had to be reviewed by the board, but Dr. Maddox was _on_ the board. While George was not one to count chickens before they hatched, what he did achieve, he allowed others to be proud of and indulged them in a toast – or two.

"We're all so proud of you," Jane Bingley said, as she gave her nephew a farewell hug. The party did have to break up, to continue at another time, because snow was falling and the Bingleys needed to be home, and there were two wailing children calling for their mother's attentions. "Even your mother is proud of you. Did you get her letter? She was worried you wouldn't."

"Why did she send it before I sat for the exams? How did she know I would pass?"

"She believed in you," his aunt said. "She didn't have any doubt. She was more worried about her letter so she wrote me and your Aunt Darcy to make sure you heard."

"Thank you, Aunt Bingley." George smiled because he was happy – and he was drunk.

"Good show," Edmund Bingley said, offering a rare grin.

"Strong work," Charles Bingley III said. George looked at them oddly; it was the only time he could remember hearing them speak in concert.

Eliza hugged him. "Did you hear from Mr. Turner?"

"Yes. I suppose we'll share notes tomorrow."

"We shall."

The Bingleys were gone, and Mr. Bennet was sound asleep in the armchair and had to be carried to bed. George collapsed in the same chair once it was vacant, at which his uncle appeared before him. "Oh no," he said, to the blue bottle Darcy was holding. "I've had enough."

"I bought this when you became a Fellow to open when you completed your education. Now I know you've just had the best whiskey in your life, so you're fortunate that this is brandy." He opened it and handed it to the butler, who poured everyone surrounding a drink. Darcy shoved one in George's hand. "To Dr. Wickham!"

"To Dr. Wickham!"

He drank and it was very good. It was possibly the best brandy he'd ever had. He was contemplating it and he looked up and noticed Georgie had returned. He tried to rise to bow to her, but stumbled and fell back in the chair.

"You're right – he's still a lush."

"Wha – how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough. But I can't blame you – it is very good brandy." She had her own glass. The study seemed empty now of even Uncle Darcy. It was just Georgie and Geoffrey. "Congratulations."

"There's a word I've never heard before."

"How about 'we're so proud of you,'?"

"Yes, yes."

Geoffrey snickered. "You know you deserve only the best, of course?"

"Now you're not even _trying_!"

"We don't have anything else to say!" Georgie said, and sipped from her own glass as she sat down on Darcy's desk. "We're happy for you."

"You know where we were seven months ago," Geoffrey said. "The two of us."

"I was a madman and an addict and you were boxing with the inspector over Georgie."

Geoffrey pointed at him. "You said that never happened!"

"You said we should say that and I said yes, except I didn't say I wouldn't keep it when I was drunk, because I can't do that when I'm drunk, and you should know that if you're going to give me booze. You know enough about me already." He turned to Georgie, which made him dizzy. "They were very loud."

"Did he hurt Audley that badly?"

"What, you're not concerned for me? Your _husband?_"

George broke into giggles as Georgie swiped her husband. "You're not supposed to hit a policeman!"

"I'll hit any man who touches you," Geoffrey said in a voice that might have sounded more serious if it wasn't slurred. "You're mine. I love you." He kissed her, which served to soothe her.

Not that George cared a whit about anything other than the visual. He covered his eyes best he could without relinquishing hold on his glass. "I'm not looking!"

"When were you such a prude? You have a whore in every city. London, Paris, St. Andrews – "

"I didn't."

Geoffrey said, "What?"

"I didn't see anyone in St. Andrews. I haven't seen anyone since I went to the hospital. At first I was scared – I was scared of everything – and then, then I met Miss Turner." It sounded more like _Mish Turner_. "And I haven't gone to a whore since."

"You haven't _fallen_ in love. You've _sunk_," Georgie said, pulling away from Geoffrey. "George, you have to marry this woman. You – you have to."

He swallowed. "If she'll have me, when I tell her."

"Tell her what? That you're not a virgin?" Georgie said, and whatever else she said dissolved into laughter. Painfully, Geoffrey joined her.

He wasn't in the mood for it, not at that moment. "That I'm a madman!"

They stopped laughing. Georgie still smiled, and cupped his cheeks with her hands, touching not the flesh but only his extended whiskers. "George, if _we _love you anyway, _she_ certainly will. Or she's a bitch and you should forget all about her."

Geoffrey started laughing again, and George sunk into his chair. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he wouldn't fall asleep in front of them, and endure that humiliation. Instead he lurched. How did he have it in him? No, Geoffrey was helping him up, being the most sober of the three of them. "Come on. Put your back into it, Wickham."

"I don't wanna – I don't want to mess this up. I want to be happy."

"So you've come off your high horse and joined the rest of humanity at last." Geoffrey chuckled. "No you walk, I'll steer. I need some air – I have to carry Georgie up."

"Don – don't you have people for that?"

"If I'm to be master of Pemberley, I should at least know how to _do_ what they do," he said, and carried him in some direction; George lost track. His face hit the pillow.

"Are you – are you all right?"

He barely heard the question. "I don't like hearing I'm so well because I don't feel it, like I don't deserve to feel it." His head was turned on its side, so he could see Geoffrey standing there, ever the sentinel, like his father.

"You deserve to feel – I don't know, _it_."

"Normal?"

Geoffrey laughed. "I'm sick in the head and my wife is a San Soo master. I don't know what that _is_."

And then Geoffrey was gone and George fell asleep like that, sleeping on his chest with his coat on, in a warm, dark place between drunkenness and sobriety, darkness and light.

********************************************

George Wickham would have greatly preferred if he had had more time with his sister the day before – that or he could convince her that they would have plenty of time in the days afterwards. She was too eager to see him, knocking on his door and going away only to reappear in what seemed like moments but were actually much longer stretches of time. He hid from the light, a pack on his head, and drank the tea the servant brought even though it had mint in it, and he didn't like mint, but didn't have the wherewithal to say so.

He finally sat up, slipped out of yesterday's clothes and into cleaner ones, and received her in the darkened sitting room. She brought Edward, whose wail he could have done without, but at least his nephew ceased when in his arms. "Sorry. Time is it?"

"Noon. We have dinner at Kirkland tonight, and Christmas Eve is tomorrow. Edward wanted to see you."

"And how did he express such a sentiment?" But then he looked down at Edward's smiling face, and his heart melted. "Fine, you are adorable and I do love you. Are you satisfied, or must I give you something?"

Edward only reached up and tugged at George's whiskers. They were definitely too long, but this seemed to please him.

"The post has come, despite the snow," Isabel said. "There are all kinds of Christmas letters. Should I have yours sent up?"

"No – I'll be down. I should join the world of the living eventually," but he didn't take his eyes off his nephew, who looked back at him with wonder.

After two cups of tea he was ready, and greeted the cacophony of voices that were sitting down for lunch, though there was more reading than speaking. George's letters were at his setting. He had one from Julie Bradley, written by her but with the signature or mark of the rest of the Bradley children, wishing him a Happy Christmas. His mother's letter was remarkably brief in that it didn't request money, leaving her with little else to say. Mr. Bradley trumped both of them by congratulating him, and listing all of his accomplishments from their first meeting (when George was so well-spoken and thoughtful for someone his age) to his degree. George thought back; most of what he remembered of Mr. Bradley between their meeting and Julie's birth was his mother, telling him again and again to be quiet and polite to this man who would now be the man of the house, not Mr. Bennet. He did as was told and stayed in his room, but decided he had no reason to dislike his stepfather, who won him over with a massive Latin dictionary with a gilded cover. Did Mr. Bradley remember that? It seemed that he did.

Mr. Bennet read Joseph Bennet's letter aloud. The boy – now very much a man – was a year away from graduation and ordination in the Church of England, and his letter was full of humility and joy and thankfulness for the blessings of family, as befit a man of the church in his Christmas greeting. Unlike an ordinary Vicar, when Joseph Bennet wished them well they knew him sincere and could hear his voice reciting it like a sermon, not just because they were his relatives but because of who he was. He was spending Christmas, as usual, with his mother and the rest of the Bertrand family at Longbourn.

George suspected a certain favoritism of Mr. Bennet for this grandson – more than suspected, he _knew_. It was obvious that Grandfather Bennet had a special place in his heart for the bastard child who, by the circumstances of his birth, had his name, something no one else could boast. Now with Mr. Collins deceased, the entail would be broken with Mr. Bennet's death and Longbourn would be sold to Joseph, who would be the new Mr. Bennet of Longbourn. How could one not feel the inherent connection? The Bennets had, as grandparents, favored their first grandchild – a title George Wickham laid claim to – and Mrs. Bennet had in her lifetime shown George love and care, and Mr. Bennet spent long hours tutoring him, letting him flourish within the walls of his book-lined study. There he was safe; there he could escape his mother weeping in black or cursing Uncle Darcy. In that room, he wouldn't be judged. The other occupant was Joseph Bennet, before Mr. Bradley came along and they moved to Gracechurch Street. George looked down at his letters and his broth, and he sat lonely despite being surrounded, for a time and a place he could never revisit. He sat for awhile and had a biscuit, but then left, and retreated to the library.

"George."

He turned and bowed. "Georgiana."

"I'm sorry for last night." She did not look her best, either. "We just rarely see you drunk; I've forgotten how moody you can be."

"That's your apology?"

"Not very good, is it?"

He waved it off and sat back down. "I shouldn't have said anything about Paris."

"Did Geoffrey really punch Robert?"

She used his first name. Something had been between them – not that he doubted it. "They had quite a scuffle. Broke one of the tables, but it seemed to settle things. I swore not to say anything; Geoffrey was ashamed of his behavior."

"He was probably ashamed you found out," she said. "I told him I thought it was adorable."

"It was violent. Oh, I've forgotten, I'm talking to Georgiana Darcy."

She smiled and sat across from him. A nurse came in, who passed William to Georgie, who passed him to George. "Hello there," he said, giving him a squeeze. "I suppose I should have a present for you on sight if I'm to live up to the standards set by Charles Bingley. Well, it's in the trunk, so you will have to wait." William grabbed George's tie and tried to put it in his mouth only to be prevented by his cousin. "Thank you," he said to Georgie.

"Did you get a letter from your mother?"

"That wasn't it. Just thinking of days gone by."

"All will become nothing. Just like a dream, whatever things we enjoy will become a memory. Whatever is past will not be seen again."

George looked up at Georgie, and saw she was serious. "That's rather on the droll side. Where did that come from?"

She rose, and went to the shelves, removing a small volume from between two big ones and handed it to him. With one hand holding William, he opened the cover. " 'An Account of an Embassy to the Court of Teshoo Lama, in Tibet; Containing a Narrative of a Journal through Bootan, and part of Tibet, by Captain Samuel Turner.' Well, I can't say I would put it past you, but it's still a dreary idea." He closed the book, but she did not indicate she was eager to have it back.

"It's not; it's a difficult philosophy that embraces change. If you accept that all things living will die, then theoretically, we can enjoy the present, and be less surprised and worried for the future."

"Do you believe that?"

She smiled. "The only thing I believe at this moment, because I know it for sure, is that if you're not careful, William will swallow one of your buttons."

George looked down, and noticed his godson had his tiny mouth around a button and was doing his best to chomp down on it. "Please, don't put that in your mouth!" He pulled him away. "It's not clean. It's not safe."

William began to cry, and Georgie took him. On cue, Alison appeared. "Mama-san, is William all right? What's he doing?"

"Nothing he should have been doing," Georgie said. "Darling, manners."

Alison curtseyed. "Cousin Wickham."

"Miss Darcy. How are you today?"

"I don't have a headache because I didn't stay up to make a drunken fool of myself."

"_Alison!_"

"Grandmama Darcy said it first."

"That does not mean it should be repeated!"

"But she said – "

"I don't care what she said. Apologize this instant!"

She did, but it was not all that difficult, as the moment did not stay serious no matter how hard Georgie tried to keep it that way, because George was laughing too hard.

... Next Chapter - Christmas in Winter


	37. Christmas in Winter

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Sorry for the delay on this chapter. FFnet's uploader was down for a day or two.

* * *

Chapter 37 - Christmas in Winter

As Christmas approached, Alison, William, and Edward were all put to bed and left with their nurses, and the adults gathered in their church clothing. The Darcy family would not lapse in their attendance, including young mothers. Even Mr. Bennet, bundled against the weather, would venture out.

"What can we expect for a sermon, do you think?" Mr. Franklin asked as he and Geoffrey helped themselves to pre-holiday festival glasses of port.

"I don't know. He might take a night off from extolling the virtues of a loyal wife in favor of the Virgin Mary, who did not even sleep with her husband," Geoffrey said. "He's still mad that his wife left him."

"Is there anything to be done?"

"He's an old man, but that's the extent of what we can do." He touched his glass with Saul's. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

The Darcy family appeared in force, joining the Bingleys on the way and arriving with appropriate time for seating. Of course the locals wanted nothing more than to talk with the mother of the heir to Pemberley – second in line, technically – but it was too crowded to satisfy everyone. She waved at the back rows of faces she recognized from town, Master Hyuu's prayer beads wrapped around her wrist, as they always were. They took their seats up front and the services began.

The old Vicar did change his tone for the very holy night, focusing instead on the innocence of the child Christ, and Georgie nudged her husband as his eyes began to close. "You're not old enough to nod off." To her right, in the next aisle, her father was asleep and her mother had given up attempts to wake him. Uncle Darcy was barely awake himself, and that was saying something. George Wickham just looked down at his book of psalms and avoided anyone's eyes.

It was far too late and too cold for conversation outside the church, so after the service they said their goodbyes and climbed into their respective carriages. The sky was clear and the air crisp, but there was still some snow on the ground from the days before. By the time they were home, undressed, and in bed, William was awake and hungry. Geoffrey waited for his wife to join him before they finally fell asleep, the sky already brightening.

"Happy Christmas!"

Geoffrey just laughed as Georgie put her arm over her head to block the light. "Knocking! What did I say about knocking?"

"I forget the Japanese for Christmas."

"Because there is no Japanese for Christmas," Geoffrey said.

"Oh. Happy Christmas!" Alison climbed up on the bed and squeezed between them. "Did you tell William?"

"Tell him what?"

"That it's Christmas?"

"No. William's a baby. He doesn't care," Georgie grumbled. "Honey, even the baby is asleep right now."

"You're not! You're talking to me."

"Happy Christmas, darling."

"Don't encourage her."

Not that it could be helped. Alison would have woken the whole house if they hadn't stopped her by giving her their own presents. This distracted her long enough to wake her brother, who had only one desire, and that was to be fed and rocked back to sleep by his mother.

Geoffrey rose and rang for Mr. Reynolds, who was already up and waiting for him. "Not many people are up yet, sir."

"I imagine. Happy Christmas, Reynolds."

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Darcy."

The dining room was empty. Geoffrey snatched a bun off the tray and looked in the drawing room, then the library, where he found George going through one of the shelves. "George. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Geoffrey." He stood up straight. "I was just – replacing one of your wife's books on uhm – what is it." He looked at the cover. "Budoism."

"Buddhism."

"Yes. Didn't understand a word."

"Neither do I."

George put the book back in its place. "You put up with a lot."

"It's more complex than that, but more rewarding," Geoffrey replied. "So what of this mysterious Miss Turner?"

His cousin didn't look at him, but kept thumbing through the bookshelves. He must have memorized them long ago, but he didn't want to make eye contact. "What about her? She's not so mysterious."

"You haven't said a word."

"She's intelligent, witty, and attractive. She engages me in conversation even when I'm an ass in my responses. Either she knows I don't mean it or she just thinks the best of everyone, but I don't think it's the latter – it's not in her nature. I can think of no one, beyond Uncle Grégoire, who has that level of compassion for the human race."

"You are very cynical, but perhaps that doesn't need stating. If she even remotely understands you, then you're a fool not to marry her."

"Ah. But as you said, it's more complex than that."

"I didn't say you should go lightly into it, but when do you go lightly into anything? So, what are you going to do?"

George turned to him and sighed. "After the physician's exam, I'll go to her mother for permission to court her. I'm putting it off. It's not going to be easy. There's a serious complication."

"What is it?"

"Her mother was seduced by my father."

Geoffrey laughed. "You can't be serious." But he looked at George's face and already knew the answer. "How do you know?"

"Miss Turner recognized my name. Apparently her mother uses 'George Wickham' as the stand-in name for every rake and ravisher out there. Long before she was married, Mrs. Turner was a tradesman's daughter in Newcastle."

"My G-d, that's a bit of luck, isn't it? What are the chances of that?"

"High enough." George went to the decanter on the stand, and poured himself a small amount in a glass. "Her mother doesn't know my name yet."

"She can't hold it against you."

"All she has to do is _look_ at me."

"Maybe she won't remember what he looked like. It was over twenty years ago!"

"Mr. Turner – Eliza's beau – recommended I put it off for as long as possible."

Geoffrey smiled for him, for some encouragement. "Dr. Wickham does sound better than Mr. Wickham."

"Let's hope so."

********************************************

With so few young children, there were not many receivers of presents. Gifts to Eliza and Charles for their birthday were more sophisticated and privately given. They were _trying_ to hold back on Alison, who was only a week from her birthday. William was given either clothing or gifts that he proceeded to try to put in his mouth, often without much success if they were placed out of his reach. Edward had more, and showed some interest in the device the Darcys bought to hang over his cradle, trying to grab the rotating wooden stars, and they called it a victory and sat down for the Christmas meal. Alison was invited, and spent it perched on three massive volumes on the chair between her parents. William sat on Mr. Bennet's lap; the man hardly ate anything anymore, proclaiming he'd lost his taste with his sense of smell long ago, and he was consumed in holding his youngest grandson. "That Mrs. Bennet could see you."

Though it was difficult for anyone to follow any one conversation or even for Darcy or Elizabeth to trade words across the massive table, they managed and there were a few toasts, but nothing excessive, especially considering how early it was. They would not be hungry for dinner, leaving the servants to their own below-stairs revelry. It was Christmas, after all.

********************************************

1832 arrived with a cold blast of air that had even the more compliant guests complaining; Mr. Bennet, despite years of the North's harsh weather, never seemed to be free of the chill.

On Alison's fifth birthday they woke to half a foot of snow, fallen over the course of the night and still falling. This distracted her long enough to allow them to get the presents out, and it was like Christmas all over again for one person. Aside from the standard toys and clothing, the most exceptional gift came from her godfather. Charles Bingley III gave her a new child's kimono – a real one, not a fake. Where he'd gotten one on short notice, they had no idea, but it was purple and red and came with a blue obi and she wanted to wear it right away, and it took both of her parents physically carrying her out of the room to keep her from changing right there in the drawing room. She wore it for the rest of the day and night, having outgrown most of her others, and stayed by her uncle's side for the rest of the day.

Though George was eager to be back in London, it was obvious that it was not going to be possible until the roads were cleared, and they would not be, so he settled in, as did the Franklins. They did clear a path to Kirkland, so the families could go back and forth with ease, but had to re-carve it with each new snowfall.

At last there was a break, and they were told the roads would be ready. The Franklins began to pack, wanting to be back in London with George.

********************************************

As for George, he packed quickly and spent his hours studying. He knew he should expect to pass, and had a fair idea of what would be asked and what answers to give to appease the board, but there were charts that had to be memorized and he didn't want anything escaping him. He stayed up late, either in his room or the study, which his uncle let him use. On more than one occasion, he fell asleep with his head on the book, waking only at the sound of the grandfather clock.

He looked up. Twelve chimes - midnight. Only one candle was still lit and with the door closed, perhaps no one knew he was still in the room. The fire had died down and it was cold in the room. Shivering, he closed his book and rose, crossing the empty hallway to the library, where it was even colder. There the candles were still lit, and as he put the book away, he saw a pair of glasses and half-full wine glass on the stand. George walked around the armchair. "Grandfather," he said loudly, but Mr. Bennet did not wake. "Come. I'll take you to bed, if I can still lift you." But he touched him, and still he did not wake. The room was cold, Mr. Bennet was cold, his head drooping down to one side with a sly smile across his face. "Grandfather?" He took his hand, and finding no warmth, held his finger down on the wrist. There was no response, no beating of a pulse. His chest was not rising from breath.

Mr. Bennet was dead.

********************************************

George raced up the stairs so fast he was breathing heavily when he reached the door to the master bedroom. Finding it empty, he was approached by a lone servant carrying a candlestick. "I have to find Uncle Darcy."

"The mistress' chambers, sir. But he's likely – "

"He needs to be woken." He proceeded immediately to the door, and banged long and hard until it was opened.

His uncle stood with a hastily added robe over his nightshirt. He could read the anxiety on George's face. "What is it?"

"Grandfather Bennet is dead."

He had never seen his uncle so pale, and yet, he did not look weak, or frightened. Sadness came with the same authority that the master of Pemberley had in every other part of his life. "Are you sure?"

"It is my professional opinion."

"Where is he? Has he been disturbed?"

"I found him in the library. He must have died in his sleep."

Darcy rubbed his forehead. "Let me tell Elizabeth, and we'll come down. Don't tell anyone else yet."

"I won't."

Darcy closed the door, and though he was at a loss as to what to do, George Wickham was very sure of one thing: he did not want to be on the other side of that door.

********************************************

Elizabeth Darcy woke with her husband's gentle voice. "Lizzy." He was concerned, but he was almost always concerned. She opened her eyes, pulling herself away from a strange dream about two black crows that followed her around, and looked up. Her husband was in his dressing robe, and holding a candlestick. He set it down and took his place beside her, but did not lie down. "Are you awake?"

"What is it? One of the children?" She knew it wasn't true; nothing could hurt her precious babies, all of them, or she would know, and yet even the concept put ice in her veins. As if it wasn't cold enough. Darcy spoke with care, which meant slowly, and even more slowly when he wanted to be gentle, so she beat him to it. "My father."

"George found him in the library. He passed in his sleep." He took her hand, and held it with both of his, so much larger than her slender fingers, knotted with age. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth."

She could only think of one thing to keep away the sadness. "I want to see him." Maybe it wasn't true, and the crows were still there, and she was still dreaming. She could not delude herself for that long.

Darcy helped her out of bed, his hands almost caressing her, hugging her body to his. He didn't call a servant, but found a heavy robe and slippers for her. It was too late and too sudden for a bonnet or even hairpins. He guided her out, and they descended the stairs together.

There was one servant lighting the candles, and George stood by the door. He bowed. "Aunt Darcy. Uncle Darcy."

"George." She hugged him. _Poor George, to make the horrible discovery_, but she held herself back. She needed to prepare herself. "You're sure?"

"You should call for a real doctor, but yes."

Darcy did not take the lead. He walked beside her, as slowly as she wanted to go, as they rounded the armchair by the now-lit fire. Mr. Bennet looked asleep, his head to one side. His glasses were on the stand, on top of the book he was reading, and there was still wine in his glass. And he was smiling. "Papa," she whimpered, and Darcy touched his neck, beneath the ear. Frowning, he unbuttoned the top button of Mr. Bennet's vest and then shirt, and put his hand to his chest. He stood there for a moment before buttoning him up again and looking to his wife. "Papa!" she cried, and fell sobbing into her husband's arms. "No! No, I'm not ready! I thought I was going to be ready – "

"No one is ready," Darcy said, his words so soft, like silk. He held her and waited, and when she was ready, he walked her away, into the drawing room, and began giving the servant orders.

She cried and cried and was lost to the people around her. "Mama," Anne said, from nowhere, and held her.

"He was still smiling," Elizabeth said. "Jane."

"She's been sent for," her son assured her. So Geoffrey was up too. How long had she been crying? Her head already hurt and she still had more tears.

"Aunt Darcy." Georgie embraced her, and Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to Darcy, who was seated at the writing desk, already penning letters. Yes, there was so much to do, and yet she couldn't imagine doing it. She was where she stood and could move nowhere; she couldn't even stand without someone holding her up. She had brief moments where the tears stop, and she was distracted by all the activity around her, and people calling her name and kissing her and telling her they loved her, and then she would remember _why_, and it would begin again.

Jane arrived somewhere in that terrible blur. She was dressed hastily, Bingley beside her. Both of them had red eyes. "Lizzy."

"Jane." Elizabeth hugged her with all of her remaining strength, so quickly slipping away from her. "He was smiling. I saw him; he was smiling. You remember – he sits – he would sit in that chair – he loved to sit in that chair and read and he had a book – " But she could say no more.

"Mrs. Darcy," Bingley bowed to her. I'm sorry for your loss."

It was his loss too, she realized. This was her Papa, who had at first refused to meet him to taunt her mother, then did it because it was the right thing to do for Jane, then mocked them all about dashed expectations, then welcomed him as a son-in-law. Charles Bingley II was the first man to approach Mr. Bennet for a daughter's hand in marriage, and the first man to whom he gave his consent. He put up with their mother's hollering and invading his life without a single complaint. He helped put dirt on the same mother's grave, and stood beside Mr. Bennet at the funeral. And now he would put earth on the grave of the man who had treated him like a son, just as Elizabeth's own husband would – and Mr. Townsend, and Dr. Bertrand, and maybe even Mr. Bradley.

Dr. Dunhill arrived despite the cold and the snow, and pronounced Mr. Edmund Bennet, a man of four and eighty years, dead of natural causes.

Through the mist of her tears, Elizabeth saw a little red figure walking around. "Alison." She sat down to be closer to her. Alison was pacing, unable to connect to what had happened. "What do you have there?"

Alison opened her hands to reveal a pocket watch. "Grangran gave it to me. He told me how to wind it."

She recognized the watch. "For your birthday?"

Alison shook her head. "Yesterday." She wound it. "It still ticks!"

Elizabeth tried to smile, and closed Alison's hands over the watch. "So it does."

... Next Chapter - Mr. Bennet of Longbourn


	38. Mr Bennet of Longbourn

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 38 - Mr. Bennet of Longbourn

It was no small thing to bring the five Bennet sisters together in the heart of winter, especially with two of them bringing their father's body from the north. Whatever forces had taken their father from them spared them now, and the sky was sunny and clear on the long march to Hertfordshire.

In the front carriage, Darcy held his wife, clutching her newly-dyed gown. Elizabeth did not speak, and he found nothing he could think of to say to her, the one person he could always think of something to say to. He knew no words to console her; even sharing fond memories of her father would only make her upset, and her eyes were red, surrounded with dark circles from crying. He couldn't stand to see it, for her own health and sanity. He remembered losing his father, and hearing none of the words offered to him. Then he thought only of his sister, just a child, who had never known her mother and now would have barely known her father, and feeling overwhelmed in the task at hand – raising her, not running Pemberley. Thank heavens Richard Fitzwilliam stepped in as a joint guardian. It was his only relief through the whole mourning period, and he could think of nothing now.

They sat together, entwined physically but both lost in their own thoughts.

********************************************

"I could have said something." Jane looked out the window, but still held tight to her husband's hand. "The night before, at dinner, if only I said something meaningful – "

"There were thousands of dinners and thousands of nights where you said things that meant things to him," Bingley said. "Your very presence meant something to him – why else would he spend the last years of his life in Derbyshire, so far away from his own home? He did not require a goodbye, or he would have asked for one."

"I didn't know. I wasted so much time."

"It seems that way, but it's not true." Bingley said it with conviction, more than was normally in his voice, and squeezed her hand. "You were with him when he needed you, and you were living your life and giving him grandchildren – and great-grandchildren. It made him so happy. Do you remember how he liked to read those bawdy stories to Georgiana? He thought he could get away with it because they were Chaucer, and he was right."

"He used to read to me," Jane said, wiping her eyes. "When I was younger, in his study. I was very small, and Lizzy wasn't much bigger. She couldn't have understood – I barely understood – and she would sit in his lap and he would hold her in one hand and the book in the other, and I would sit on the footstool beside him and listen for hours. Mama was busy with Mary, and then with Kitty, and finally Lydia, and he kept reading, and Mary joined us and _she_ got to sit on his lap and _we_ had to sit on stools, me and Lizzy, and we were so jealous of her." She leaned into him. "_Charles_."

"I know, my angel." He kissed her on the cheek. "I know."

********************************************

Despite all of her gentle rocking, holding, and whispers, Georgie could not get William to go to sleep, or even stop wailing. She looked across from her to her husband, who gave her a tired smile. Alison clutched his side against the rough ride that was a carriage ride in winter; especially at the speed they were going. "I don't think he likes the carriage ride, honey."

"Just like you," Alison said.

"Yes, but no one hit him in the head."

"You got hit in the head?"

"Yes. That's why I get headsick and I can't hear very well."

"When?"

"Before you were born. I was a young man."

"Did Mama do it?"

Georgie laughed, and Geoffrey looked down at his daughter. "No, of course not."

"Then who did?"

"A very bad man."

"What happened to him?"

"Your mother fought him, and I shot him. She was very brave."

"Was he a samurai?"

"No, this was in England. A long time ago." It felt like years – everything felt like years ago, as if some great era had passed, divided by when Grandfather Bennet was alive, and when he wasn't.

********************************************

"George! How can you be reading at a time like this?"

George looked up from the book long enough to reply, "It was the book Grandfather was reading before he died."

"Oh." Isabel was ashamed, though he didn't mean her to be. She held Edward, who was chewing her necklace and pulling at it without much success, so she let him. "What is it?"

"_The Divine Comedy_," he said. "An English translation, but a good one."

"Will you read it to us?"

"Of course." He cleared his throat. "The bookmarker was at the third book, _Paradiso_. I'll start again: 'The Glory of G-d who moveth everything, penetrates all the universe and shines more brightly in one part, and elsewhere less. Within the Heaven which most receives His Light I was, and saw what he who thence descends neither knows how, nor has the power to tell..."

********************************************

"Charles," Eliza begged, drying her eyes with her handkerchief, "what will we do without him?"

"Soldier on, I suppose."

"Most people don't know their grandparents, much less until they are adults," Edmund said, and met two glares. "I just meant we should be thankful."

"I didn't know my grandparents," Lucy Bingley pointed out. "You're very lucky."

Eliza sniffled and nodded, but didn't feel that way – not at that precise moment.

********************************************

When the caravan of carriages arrived at Longbourn, things were prepared. Mary Bertrand, in bombazine, rushed to greet her sisters, with Kitty following behind her, and eventually Lydia. Joseph Bennet, returned from University, stood in the doorway with Dr. Bertrand to receive guests and mourners.

It took some hours to settle everyone. Even with Longbourn renovated, it was hard to fit everyone between the estate and Netherfield Park (which had also been renovated some years ago, but maintained its original façade). The Bennet sisters took turns sitting with the casket of their father, placed in a back room until the funeral. It would wait for all the mourners to arrive, even those who knew him as friends, because there were a great many of them.

Charlotte Collins arrived first thing the next morning, joining Elizabeth to her great surprise and delight in the parlor, where she was recovering from several hours of poor sleep with some strong coffee. "Charlotte!"

"Lizzy!"

They embraced as they always had, as old friends. All of Charlotte's daughters were married, and she was living in the house at Hunsford as a dowager, secure in her residence and near at least two of her children, who lived in Kent. "I'm so sorry. He was such a wonderful man."

"Thank you." Elizabeth squeezed her hands. "It is so good to see you. Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"My brother still lives in town with his wife and children, at the old house. He'll be attending the funeral."

"Oh! I'd forgotten. It's been so long since I've been in Hertfordshire. Of course, your brother." She was in enough correspondence to know that Charlotte's sister had passed away some years ago. "Until a few days ago, there was so much good news to tell you."

"After the funeral," Charlotte reassured her. "There will be time."

The local Vicar arrived, someone they didn't know but the Townsends and the Bertrands did, and Mary and Andrew Bertrand received him. He would perform the ceremony, but Joseph insisted on giving the eulogy. He was not far from ordination himself, and he had such a commanding presence about him when he wanted to that it was impossible to say no. He was tall, but not excessively so, and his hair was black and his skin darker in tone as it always had been. He did not have his mother's stern face except in rare moments when he put it on, and he could to great effectiveness. Now was not the time, of course, and he greeted all of his relatives with a gentle handshake or a bow.

The sound of children's laughter kept the mood up just enough for everyone to bear it. None of Lydia's children were out and most of them nowhere near being so, and Alison played well with the ones closer to her age. Georgie, Isabel, and the nurses erected a little pen in the nursery where they could place the babies that were old enough to sit up or crawl, along with a number of toys for them to put in their mouths or fight over.

That night, Elizabeth found her husband in the study, going over the correspondences on her behalf "No! Darcy, don't sit there."

He stood, and looked down at the ordinary armchair. "What is it?"

"My father's chair. That was my father's chair. He would sit in it for hours to escape – well, you remember Mama." She was almost too tired to cry, but she managed, and he helped her into the other seat and leaned on the desk, patiently waiting for her to recover. "Can you just tell me who they're from? I don't need to hear the words ."

He picked up the pile. "They were all very nice, so that you know. Here we are – a daughter of Mr. Collins, another daughter of Mr. Collins, my sister and Lord Kincaid. A lovely one from Richard and Anne – and a separate one from Henry Fitzwilliam." Back in Derbyshire, Darcy immediately sent out notices, saying to relay their regrets to Hertfordshire instead. "My brother and his wife. And Patrick, who also signed the letter."

"How nice."

"One from our own housekeeper, signed by a number of the staff. The Maddoxes, who are intending to be here but not sure if they'll make it on time, depending on the roads." Brian and Nadezhda Maddox would have been there, but as Dr Maddox had explained, they were away in Holland on business. One from Mrs. Lucy – is that Miss Lucy Gardiner?"

"Yes."

He put the letters aside. "Would you like something? Tea?"

She shook her head. The only thing she wanted was not something he could give her.

********************************************

The next morning, the Maddoxes arrived in full force.

"He was a good man," Dr. Maddox said to Jane and Elizabeth. "Sensible. He could make light of the worst situations."

"Thank you."

The afternoon sky was clear and blue, and the snow was shoveled in the cemetery and the ground opened at last. Hertfordshire was not nearly as cold as Derbyshire, and yet Elizabeth was tugging her black shawl tight around her anyway, as the five Bennet sisters looked upon the coffin of their father, as it was led away by wagon to the cemetery.

Joseph Bennet, all in black, stood at the head of the coffin. "'With the ancient wisdom; and in length of days understanding.' Book of Job Chapter 12, paragraph 12. A more appropriate line could not be found for Edmund Bennet, who passed from this earth into heaven after four and eighty years, and not a single person here who knew him would doubt that he was among the wisest of men. As one of his twenty-one grandchildren, one of my first memories was of him reading to me. At eight he was already teaching me Latin and Greek, and he loved to speak to me in Italian, so I had to learn that as well. He was as much a father to me as a grandfather.

"We also remember him a devoted husband, who never once removed his mourning band for Mrs. Bennet, and would speak of her often, as if to remind us how proud she was of all of their daughters when she was no longer present to say it.

"Where another man would have buckled under the pressure of having no son to inherit and pushed his daughters to marry as early as possible, Mr. Bennet's daughters were treasures to him, and he only gave them away after every consideration and reassurance that they would be happy with their choices. When they needed shelter, he took them in, and when he saw a chance for his own house to prosper without him, he offered it away so that his daughter could fill it with her own family. He saw no use for riches, and gave to whomever came asking, even to his own disadvantage. If it was a daughter or a son-in-law or a grandchild, or one of Mrs. Bennet's relatives, he never turned his back to them. They said that his death would be the death of them, and bring misfortune to the younger family members, so he lived a very long time, enough to see grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren – a feat of which few men can boast.

"Though the news weighs heavy on my heart, it was some small comfort to me that he died peacefully, and as he lived – reading, in the library at Pemberley. I cannot think of a more suitable ending for a life well-lived. Amen."

"Amen."

The Vicar began his prayers as they lowered the coffin. Joseph turned his head and wiped his eyes, and Geoffrey gave him a pat on the shoulder. "A very nice speech."

"I hope they won't all be like that," Joseph whispered back.

George stood beside them, letting his tears fall. George remembered Mr. Bennet; they lived at Longbourn between his father's death and his mother's remarriage.

Mr. Bingley picked up the shovel, and put some earth on the grave before handing it to Darcy. "That's it. We're the old men."

"I prefer distinguished," Darcy said, but there was no laughter in his voice as he took the tool and his turn. The five husbands of the five Bennet daughters all took their turns, and then the grandsons, and the friends, with Frederick filling in for his father, who insisted on at least holding the handle, until the grave was well-covered, and they turned away, to be comforted inside, where there might be some warmth.

"Mr. Bennet," the Vicar said, acknowledging Joseph again as he entered. "I could not have done half the job you did."

"You were not his grandson." Joseph tried to smile, his eyes red. "Thank you."

The Bennet sisters sat in a line, and were not required to rise to each person they received. Mr. Lucas, son of Sir William, offered his condolences as he walked down the row with his wife, followed by his sister Charlotte. The son and daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were there, and many older men and women in Meryton who had known Mr. Bennet, or had known the Bennet sisters as children, as he so rarely went to Meryton. Mary Bertrand and Kitty Townsend and their husbands had friends in the area, and they came en masse to pay their respects, and comfort their friends.

At the end of the room stood most of the grandchildren, waiting to see if they were needed, or snatching a bite to eat from the reception if they were not. One woman, about his mother's age approached George. "You must be George Wickham's son."

"Yes, I am."

"My name was Mary King. This is going to sound strange, but your father almost married me." She smiled. "You look just like him – very handsome."

"Thank you."

"Kitty's told me something of you over the years – you're to be a doctor or a barrister or something."

"Doctor, hopefully."

"Good for you. I'm sure both your parents are very proud. I know Lydia is."

He bowed. "Thank you."

It was long, and grueling, and the sisters took breaks, to grieve privately in the study or in another room, or even have a bite to eat, at someone's insistence, usually a son or a daughter.

"I didn't do him justice," Lydia moaned. "I always picked on him. He never let me do anything I wanted to do, I would say, and he really did give me money and let me do as I please, and to what ends?"

"Eight children and a happy marriage," Jane said.

"He loved having you home, before you remarried," Mary added. "He got to watch George and Isabel grow up a little, and play with Joseph. It was a very happy time for him. And before I married – " She started sobbing, and Kitty took her in and let her lie her head on her sister's shoulder. "Why did I have to marry? Why did I throw him from his own house?"

"You never said a word." Elizabeth's voice was soft. "You were living in London, and he didn't want an empty house, and then he wanted for you to raise your family in your home, with Dr. Bertrand as the head of the house. He did it for you and he never regretted it. Of that I'm sure."

"We should have been there! He was old – we all knew it. You wrote us that he was barely able to walk."

"But he wasn't sick," Elizabeth replied. "If he was sick I would have written. It was very sudden."

"I just knew, when I heard the doorbell." Jane discarded her handkerchief, useless at this point. "The bell woke both of us, and Charles went to answer it, but I already knew. I just felt this chill and I thought someone must be dead for a caller that hour of night, and then I knew for sure that it was Papa. Charles didn't even have to tell me. I saw him at dinner, and he looked so well - " She trailed off into her sobs, and no one stopped her.

"I should have been a better daughter," Lydia said.

"I should have known," Jane said.

"I should have visited him," Kitty said.

"And if I say one more 'I should' I will drive myself to Bedlam," Elizabeth said. "He lived a wonderful life and we did the best we could, and he was very, if not exceedingly, happy with the results. Let us be happy for him, that he had such a good life and stayed with us for so long. Can we not have a smile about that?"

They could not bring themselves to smile, but they could bring themselves to agree.

* * *

... Next Chapter - The Question of Entail


	39. The Question of Entail

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 39 – The Question of Entail

There was one more death, not to be mourned so much as endured: the death of the Bennet entail.

Longbourn and the surrounding properties, for so many generations a Bennet family property, had no heirs to lay claim to it. The only legitimate male relative of Mr. Bennet had been Mr. Collins, his nephew, who predeceased him and also had no sons. Joseph Bennet was not legitimate, and therefore had no legal part in the estate. With no one to inherit, the land would be split among the daughters, all five of them. Since they could not break up a house (reasonably), the only feasible way to manage it was for the land to be assessed, its worth distributed, and the sisters sell of their shares to a single sister or another person entirely. To no one's surprise, they had someone in mind.

The country clerk arrived two days after the funeral for the reading of the will and the destruction of the entail. There was not much Mr. Bennet owned that was not tied up in Longbourn, but what he did, he designated. His clothing was to go to the poor. His books, his children could select from them what they wanted by order of their births, then Joseph Bennet, and finally George Wickham could have what remained. Many small items – pens, decorative items that once belonged to Mrs. Bennet – were willed to his grandchildren or sons-in-law. He left a small designation of money for the local church's poor fund, and for the cost of his own funeral and the upkeep of the family graves on the property.

Despite his years of absence from Hertfordshire, Mr. Bennet still had his financial records there and they were in order, and he corresponded once or twice a year with his solicitor to make sure, so the amounts of money were not a mystery. Before receiving a great sum from a mysterious creditor in Italy, he was a man of two thousand a year. After that, he was of about five thousand, but spent little of it in the last two decades of his life and when he died, the estate was worth seven thousand a year. He could not set up distributions – it would be divided five ways to his five living daughters, and that was that.

Elizabeth and Jane, with their husband's permission, simply took a small portion for themselves and handed the rest of their portions to Joseph Bennet. Mary sold hers to him at half-price. Kitty did it at full-price, which was still not excessive given what he was getting for his money.

He came, at last, to Lydia, who said, "I don't understand why we're doing this. Mary lives at Longbourn."

"I'm going to lease it to Dr. Bertrand," Joseph said. "We decided. It was Grandfather's dream that the house go directly to a Bennet, so I will own it and he will lease it."

"What if I decided my portion was worth more?"

"It's not," Elizabeth said. "All of our potions are the same."

"Oh, what is it to you? You have all the money in the world! You just gave it to him."

"Because he needs the money more than I do."

"You decided how much yours was worth, and decided it was worth less. Is that not true?"

Jane had a softer tone. "That is not the point. We are trying to help respect our father's wishes."

"I do not think Papa would want me to live in poverty so that one bastard grandson with the right last name can have everything handed to him!"

The sisters did not sit in shocked silence for very long. "Lydia! Honestly!" Mary said. "I will not have this talk in front of my son."

"Why must I live in poverty? I ask you that, and no one has answered."

"This is not your chance to strike it rich! The law says – "

"And you're all avoiding the law to your own benefits, to make yourselves feel better about Papa's wishes, but what about my wishes? What about my children? Not all of them have Darcy trust funds."

Elizabeth looked at her sister with narrow eyes and a cold voice. "That has nothing to do with this."

"If you are in need of some assistance," Jane pleaded, "then we will help you. We are all sisters here, but you cannot make Joseph suffer, and you cannot ask him to suffer on your behalf."

"If it pleases Aunt Bradley," Joseph said, and their eyes turned to him, and the calm expression on his face, "I would recommend that my mother give her share in full to you, and then I will buy both shares from you at full price. Mother, if you do this, we will sort it out by lowering the lease, and everyone will have their fair share."

That was not precisely true – it was a means of placating Lydia by giving her two shares of five – but Mary only said, "Excuse me," and stepped aside with her son. No one else at the table spoke as they whispered in the corner before retaking their seats. "I agree to this plan. Lydia, you may have my share, and sell both to Joseph in full."

While no one hid their disgust at Lydia, no one said anything about it. The clerk said, "Is this a suitable arrangement, Mrs. Bradley?"

"Yes," she huffed. "I'm sorry – I have six children at home!"

"I know," Joseph said.

With their prior arrangements, it took a day for payments to be drafted, checks signed, and the title to Longbourn to be handed to Joseph. "Congratulations, Mr. Bennet," the clerk said. "You are now the master of Longbourn."

There was still some business about the lease. Joseph had to settle into his accounts on what was now his property before one could be drawn up for Andrew Bertrand, at the rate of five pence for the first year and an actual lease rate for each additional year. With many goodbyes, Lydia and an embarrassed Mr. Bradley (who professed to have no knowledge of her intentions when she entered the room with the clerk) escaped to London.

"The nerve of my sister!" Elizabeth howled as she paced the guest room. "Why are you so calm about this?"

Darcy leaned against the wall. "Because I'm not the least bit surprised."

"Her share was worth a great sum of money."

"When is any amount ever good enough for her?"

She stopped going back and forth, and collapsed on the bed. "I thought maybe she had changed. Matured."

"You are the less cynical one of the two of us, which is why there was any hope at all." He sat down and put his arm around her. "It was fortunate I was not in the room to oppose, and I think Joseph acted wisely. Mrs. Bradley is not incorrect in that she is the poorest sister with the most children, and in the most need of funds."

"She called Joseph a bastard, as if he wasn't there!"

"Joseph is a bastard."

"Why are you defending Lydia, of all people?"

"It is against my nature, but I am willing to go against my nature when the result is a contented wife," he replied, and took her hand. "What's done is done. I'm sure your father is in heaven, a bit disgusted and a bit amused at the same time, and your mother is defending your sister to him and cheering her on." He kissed her. "Just like they always did."

"That would be an amusing sight. Mama and Papa." She tried to hide her tears, but Darcy wiped them away with his thumb for her. "Together at last."

"A happy sight, I think."

She nodded, and accepted the comforting thought.

********************************************

The elder Darcys and Bingleys decided to stay on in Longbourn so Elizabeth and Jane could be with the two remaining sisters for longer, at least while various estate matters were settled. Darcy also expressed an interest in helping Joseph with the paperwork, which was overwhelming to someone not much trained in estate matters.

With many tearful goodbyes and reassurances, their children and grandchildren departed for London. Unless it was during or following a particularly hard snow, they could be back at Longbourn in a few hours, and would venture there at least once a week.

Not that they weren't otherwise occupied. Geoffrey received a letter from Colonel Jameson offering his condolences, which Geoffrey proceeded to read aloud to his sister. It was decided by their father that he could resume courting her a month after the funeral, which was now not so far away, but any marriage would have to be put off until 6 months had passed and she was out of jet. Isabel Franklin received a letter from Miss Turner, inquiring after her and asking how they were holding up. George was far less restricted, and could do as he pleased, but propriety demanded that he give some time out of respect for his grandfather before chasing after a woman, and he told his sister to reply in kind, and mention that Eliza Bingley might be under similar restrictions.

In a strange way, the free month opened up a window for him to study, unobstructed by the possibility of seeing Miss Turner now that it was out of the question unless they ran into each other in the streets (which was not likely in February). The Maddox house was open, and Dr. Maddox gave him permission to make full use of the library and laboratory, which he did almost every day, often staying so late he was welcomed to the dinner table. Emily and Henry Jordan now had their own place in London as he worked as a barrister, but they dined often at their parents' home, as did Frederick and Lady Heather.

In the last week of February, George Wickham sat for his physician's license. It was a grueling exam, with hours of writing followed by oral examination by members of the Royal Society. It took five days, and when he returned at night, he replied that he knew the answers, but they just took a long time to explain, and that his hand was ready to fall off. After that, there was nothing to do but wait while the board reviewed his candidacy. Dr. Maddox was on the board, but he was also intelligent enough not to vie for George on account of being distantly related through several marriages, or press the others too heavily. "You can stand well enough on your own," he told George before the process began."

The days were nerve-wrecking. George didn't sleep at all the first night, and appeared at the breakfast table in the same clothes as the night before. "Here." His sister handed him a glass of warm milk instead of his usual black coffee, and he proceeded to fall asleep at the table before his eggs could arrive. When lifted up by Mr. Franklin, he apologized profusely, but his sister only smiled. "To bed with you." She looked down at her fussy son. "And with you."

When George woke, it was afternoon, and he walked into the library, only to be dragged out by Isabel. "None of that! You're going to play with your nephew until the Darcys come for dinner, and then you're going to play with your godson and make conversation with Geoffrey and Georgie."

He was about to protest but she shoved Edward in his hands, and he was thoroughly distracted until it was time to wash up for dinner.

Geoffrey and Georgie arrived, with William but not Alison. "She's being punished," Georgie said with an air of finality about her.

"I take it I shouldn't ask what for?"

Geoffrey just shook his head and held his godson, who looked more interested in the buttons on his vest than him. "You need a haircut, don't you?" He stroked William's locks. "Maybe your first one?"

"Perhaps a little longer before we go about doing something drastic," Geoffrey. "His hair ought to at least be longer than his mother's." For which he received a slap from his wife, but he laughed anyway.

The second night, George brewed himself some tea and put his sleeping powder into it, and managed to catch a few hours. He sat in the sunroom by the window, facing the street.

"He's not going to come if you watch."

He looked up. "Mr. Franklin."

"Mr. Wickham. Here." He offered him a glass of whiskey, which even George could not resist. "You're a respectable, intelligent young man. Not at all like the scam artists they call doctors. You've nothing to worry about."

"So everyone says."

"Maybe we say it because it's true?"

The doorbell rang. The doorman didn't reach it – George did.

"Requesting your presence at the Royal Society – "

" – of Medicine yes. Wimpole Street, I know. Thank you." He paid him and put on his coat as the carriage was called. He could not be sure yet – they had to announce their decision – but at least now he would hear it, and be done with it.

He had been to the Wimpole Street building many times, with its Grecian façade and walkway. When he was a boy, he remembered Dr. Maddox taking him to lectures. Now he was a man, and told to wait outside the council chambers before being ushered in.

"Mr. Wickham," the head of the board, in academic robes, stood as he entered. "Please be seated."

He bowed and sat at the opposite end of the table.

"Upon reviewing your academic record, and speaking to your former professors and others that would speak of your good character, we are pleased to award you the license of physician, and welcome you to the Royal Society of Medicine." He signed the certificate, and put it on the silver tray for the servant in livery to bring it around and hand it to him. The ink was still drying on the paper and George could not believe it. "Congratulations, Dr. Wickham."

There was a round of applause and he set the certificate down for fear of tearing it. "Thank you. Thank you so very much!"

"With that, I declare this meeting dismissed," the chairman said, and knocked his gavel against the wood. The council members, all aged men and senior members of the medical profession, rose to greet this young man. A few bottles of very fine claret were opened in the reception room, where some of the lesser members were gathered (probably for the free food) to greet him.

He finally caught Dr. Maddox's arm. He had to do it just so, not to seem rude or startle him. "Thank you, Dr. Maddox."

"I hardly had to do anything, Dr. Wickham. The only quality you lack is confidence in yourself, and perhaps now you have gained some. It was not in question when the exams were finished, but they had to draw it out, because that's what they do, because that's what their elders did to them. They did it to me, and I was a wreck. I don't even know if my clothes were on straight the day I showed up for the decision." He smiled. "Your clothes _are_ on straight, aren't they?"

George did have to look down. "Yes, Professor."

"Good for you, then. Now as long as you go home tonight and don't learn that an older brother has lost the family fortune gambling, you should be all right."

********************************************

_To Mr. Matthew Turner,_

_I am pleased to inform you that today marks the passage of a month since my grandfather's funeral, and with respects to him, I would go so far as I may very much like to see your sister if she will see me, and that I might have the courage to approach your mother. I hope you will aid me in this endeavor, and I will be inclined to help you in your own endeavors to see more, if you choose, of Miss Bingley._

_Sincerely,_

_Doctor George Wickham_

The last three words, he underlined.

... Next Chapter - The Courtship of Cynthia Turner


	40. The Courtship of Cynthia Turner

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 40 – The Courtship of Cynthia Turner

March did not provide George Wickham for many options to meet up with Miss Turner and still have some privacy. Any social gathering would not be appropriate so close to his grandfather's death, and it was too cold and wet outside. Eventually he decided to meet Mr. Turner at a museum, and paid the entrance fee for all three of them.

She was as beautiful as he remembered. "I am sorry for your loss," she said, looking at the black band on his arm. Over a black coat, it lost much of its effect.

"Thank you."

"How old was he?"

"Four and eighty."

"Incredible," she said, gazing up at the painting in passing, but not looking much at it. Neither of them was paying attention to the artwork while Mr. Turner wandered off by himself. "This was on your mother's side?"

"Yes. I also knew my Grandmother Bennet, but she died when I was younger. As far as I can tell, his secret was to proclaim that he had one foot in the grave for forty years."

"Taunting death? Was he morbid or just had a sense of humor?"

"The latter, though he did die reading Dante's _Paradiso_."

"So he got through _The Inferno_."

George smiled. "He did." He suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands. "How have you been?"

"Remiss in congratulating you, Doctor."

He blushed. "It was nothing. Just a title."

"Must you make so small of such a large achievement?"

"It seems it is my natural inclination. And you have not answered my question."

"I am as you remember me – the bored sophisticate, turning up my nose at all London has to offer a single woman like the snob I am."

"You don't like the museum?"

"There are only so many and I've been to them all. I speak of more feminine pursuits."

"There is the theater."

"Do you go often?"

He looked away. "I don't like to be a spectacle."

"And how are you a spectacle?"

"Forgive me. I can't describe it." She stopped walking and he had to stop with her. She was looking at him and he wasn't looking back, just down at the floor, though he could feel her gaze. "I don't like people I don't know looking at me and judging me on some superficial basis."

"Then there's nothing in the theater for you," she said. "To judge and be judged is the cruel fate of a box owner."

He managed, "If you like the theater, I would go with you. I mean – I would take you. My uncle has a box he rarely uses." He did let his eyes venture up, and found nothing critical in her eyes. There could be so much softness there, when she wanted there to be. "Though, if you actually want to see the play, the orchestra seats are recommended."

"Dr. Wickham! How unfashionable."

He chuckled, "Yes, but it works. My cousin does it. He has rights to the family box, but he's hard of hearing, so he sits up close. He says you can actually hear the actors if you do that."

"Hearing the actors - what a novelty. Perhaps we should try it."

"We should." He managed to look at her again. "And you've been well?"

"Yes. And thank you for the book of poetry."

"I'm glad you got it."

"No, he didn't drink it with the whiskey, which my brother _did_ appreciate. Had it been more liquid-shaped he might have tried."

George laughed, and she almost took his hand as they walked, but the touch made them pull away, embarrassed and remembering their manners. He looked down again. "I should speak to your mother."

"Do you wish me to prepare her?"

"Whatever you think would be best. Yes, I would like to not show up unannounced and with the premise that I've just caught your eye the other day. Beyond that, I don't know. Some lady came up to me at the funeral and said she'd almost married my father."

"And how did this enter conversation?"

"She just did it. She said I looked just like him. He was trying to marry her for her money or something – I got the story from Uncle Bingley later – but when her father put attachments on it, he ran off with my mother instead."

"Lucky for you."

"Yes. I do like existing."

********************************************

"I want to hear all about her."

Stunned, George looked across the table to Georgiana. "I never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth."

"What? I'm not allowed to show an interest?"

"You're not allowed to say it like my sister says it. It ruins every pre-conceived notion I have of the world."

"You're lucky Isabel isn't here to hear you say that," Geoffrey said from the head of the table, with Alison sitting on a stool beside him, picking at his plate.

"She would take it in stride."

"Listen to him. I think he loves her."

"I daresay he does."

"I'm still in the room," George reminded them, and grudgingly returned to his food.

********************************************

The day after his dinner with the Darcys, George was back again to see his aunt and uncle, who were staying for a day before heading north again, and bringing the Darcy sisters to stay in London from Hertfordshire. Seeing everyone in black was morbid, and his aunt looked as though she had seen better days, but she had a genuine smile for him. "My nephew, the doctor. And in love. I'm so happy for you." He could see the lines of grief on her face, but some of them disappeared when she spoke to him.

"Thank you, Aunt Darcy. I'm somewhat relieved myself."

Darcy sat him down in the study and they shared a drink. Darcy did not repeat everyone else's platitudes; his expression said it all. "This girl – is it true about her mother?"

"That she knew my father in the worst possible way? Yes."

"Don't let it stop you. Don't even let it slow you down or I'll punch him through his coffin. You're too good of a man for anything to be held against you." He added, "Maybe you could wear glasses."

"Glasses?"

"It would make you look a bit different."

George chuckled. "I suppose it would."

********************************************

The Bingleys passed through as well. The toll on both Jane and Bingley was obvious, but they were in a state of recovery, not further sadness. The light was back in their eyes; George had not realized it was gone at the funeral.

"I was the first person to approach him for his daughter's hand in marriage," Bingley said, "and I could see it in him. He didn't oppose the match. He knew his daughter was in love and he knew it was the right thing to do, but he didn't want to let her go. And he did, and I loved him for it. That's what life is about, George. Doing good things for other people before you die." He put a hand on George's shoulder. "You're going to do a lot of good things. I know it. You're so strong and I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you, Uncle Bingley."

"And I look forward to some good news from you – on either front. You know what I mean."

George blushed. "I do, unfortunately."

********************************************

On Monday he had his first patients, two of them. One was an old man with a corn on his toe, who already didn't like this young man and didn't like his harsh method (surgery instead of pills) but his wife stood over him and reassured George that he was always this way. George gave him a dose of opium, then cut off the corn and bandaged it tightly. "No pills. Just wash it with boiled water and keep a clean cloth around it. Don't re-use the cloth when you change it. It's going to hurt for a few days, but if it smells or turns green, call me immediately."

"Young fancy pants, telling me what to do."

The wife smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Wickham." He earned a sovereign for his work.

The second patient he diagnosed with a cataract, and recommended a specialist. He was not an eye surgeon. Two shillings for the visit.

When he got home, there was a note from Mr. Turner, saying to come back the next day, at two, if he would. Yes, he would. At two o'clock sharp, he was in a smart suit (but an understated one, or so the tailor said who knew such things) and knocking on the door. The doorman answered, and upon his request for an audience with Mrs. Turner, showed him into the drawing room. He stood for several minutes, too nervous to take a seat, before an older woman entered from the other door, Cynthia trailing her. The woman was dressed decadently, but not too much – one could tell these were the few jewels she owned, and she was determined to show them off. "I understand you are here to request permission to court my daughter."

He bowed. "I am, ma'am."

"And your name is?"

"Dr. Wickham."

She seated herself. Miss Turner gave him a warning glance and he just swallowed.

"Full name?"

"Dr. George Wickham the Third."

"Of Newcastle?"

"Originally, yes."

She sat back. "There's no denying it – you are his son. I suppose my daughter or my son enlightened you as to the shameful connection."

"She did, Mrs. Turner."

"And you still presume entrance into my house?"

"I still request permission to court your daughter, Mrs. Turner. I've met with her many times and I've grown to like her a great deal. Now that I'm no longer a student – "

"Did you know your father well?"

"Not well. I have only one or two memories of him, and they are vague." He grimaced. "I am very aware of his reputation. To be frank, I have lived under that shadow all of my life."

"My father always said that the apple does not fall far from the tree. He also said not to make myself too obvious and eager to military officers, because they had no good intentions for me. I didn't listen to him, but he was right." She sat up. "Get out of my house."

"Mrs. Turner – "

"Mama!"

"I forbid you to see my daughter. She can do better than you, Mr. Wickham."

"_Dr._ Wickham," Miss Turner corrected.

"And if you disobey me, I'll know your true nature."

He sighed, and bowed. "I will obey you in that I will not see your daughter, though the idea pains me, until I have succeeded in changing your mind – and I will succeed, because I will not give up. I love her." He looked at Miss Turner, only the briefest of glances, before bowing yet again. "Thank you for your time. Good day."

"George!"

But he didn't listen to her, and stay and talk with her. He left like he should have, and made it all the way across the street before he saw Cynthia shove her brother out the door. He looked back at her and joined George. "That badly?"

"I don't know what I did wrong."

"Nothing, probably. Mother gets in her moods and you can't convince her of anything."

"Will you speak to her when she is not in one of her moods?"

"I will do everything I can, Wickham, for my sister, who seems to care for you a great deal."

"Thank you."

He kept his head all the way back to the Franklin house, and it was a considerable walk. The weather was as foul as his mood, but he didn't feel the sleet, and arrived home soaked, his stomach growling. After the servant removed his coat and hat, he walked to the fireplace, above which was a portrait of his father beside one of his mother. "I hate you!" He grabbed the frame and hurled it to the ground, splintering the wooden painting in half and breaking the glass frame. "You ruin every life you touch, even when you're dead, you bastard."

He kicked the remains of the wood away, and tried to catch his breath. When he looked up, Mr. Franklin had entered, wearing a dressing gown and carrying a glass of tea. Was it really that late? How much had he seen? "...Sorry. I'll replace it."

Saul Franklin knelt down and picked up part of the picture painted on wood, and held it to the light of the fireplace. "Well, this is a bit dishonorable, but when in Rome..." And he chucked it into the fire. "I'm sorry, George."

George sat down in the chair closest to the heat, as without his blood pumping, he felt the winter chill. "She forbade me to see her daughter – on no stated grounds."

"None?"

"She did repeat the old adage about the apple and the tree. That was the entirety of her argument."

"How old is her daughter?"

"Far away from five and twenty," George said, referring to the age when he no longer needed the mother's consent. "And I could never ... I would never do something like that. It would just prove her right."

"You know women. They hem and haw until they get what they want. You may think Miss Turner is above it, but that's because you're in love. She'll stamp her feet and cry and her mother can't be all that cruel. She'll give."

"The brother is on my side. The one Eliza likes."

"Even better. You should eat something – you look horrible."

"I'm not hungry." George stood. "Good night." He left, leaving a befuddled Mr. Franklin in his wake.

George shooed away the servants and told them to prepare a hot bath, but stripped himself and poured the water on. It turned cold quickly, but it warmed him enough that he could put his bedclothes on, knowing full well he would find no sleep. He had never felt such anger. Fear, confusion, paranoia – these were all familiar things to him. Rage was not.

At some awful hour he got back up, lit the candles at his desk, shoved the books away, and drew a new sheet of paper.

_To Mrs. Turner,_

_Please do me the dignity of not immediately throwing this letter in the fire. _

_I would like to explain myself and my actions, though there is little to explain. I have no great secrets from you; I did put off the introduction until I was sure of my feelings for your daughter, but that was partially out of the desire to not cause your family more pain._

_I met Miss Turner at an assembly I attended because my sister insisted I get out of the house. I was studying for my school exams even though they were months away; I have a tendency to hide in my books. In some respects I am a coward and I admit to that, which is why I surround myself with people who pull me into things like balls and assemblies and public gatherings that I have always avoided. My sister, the only legitimate daughter of George Wickham and my mother before she remarried, is married to a very respectable Mr. Franklin from America. They have a son, and since I have spent the past few years studying medicine in France, I do not yet have my own house in Town and I stay with them mainly out of my sister's insistence. She is younger than me, and we grew up together, mostly left alone in the years while my mother sat in jet for my father and then after she remarried and was busy with her new husband, Mr. Bradley. I held control of her inheritance (in the form of a trust fund), and it was I that Mr. Franklin had to go to for permission to marry my sister, not Mr. Bradley. The decision was not an easy one, but she is very happy with him and I do not regret it._

_Back to the assembly and my apologies for rambling. I encountered Miss Turner over a conversation about the Bard, and by happenstance we danced a set before we even learned each other's name. At which point, she threw wine in my face – not the whole glass, just the wine. Fortunately it was white and my clothing could be salvaged, though the damage to my dignity was done. She then apologized profusely upon realizing I must be too young to be _that_ George Wickham, the one you warned her of as an example of all that is evil in the name of the male sex, and I stupidly inquired if we were related, seeing the connection between her mother and my father. At this point she found a fresh glass to throw in my face, this one well-deserved, though I did establish there was no blood connections between us, and we called it even. The butler was in the room the entire time while we spoke; no impropriety occurred. I have never been alone with your daughter. Mr. Turner or some other chaperone was always there._

_After my father's death when I was four, my mother returned to her home in Hertfordshire and lived with her parents, and my recently-deceased grandfather (you may have noticed the band) taught me what society would expect of me, and how to be a gentleman as well as a scholar. You need not fear for your daughter – my promise is sincere. I will not see her again without your permission. I have never had direct contact with her, only through Mr. Turner, who I find a likable and intelligent gentleman. _

_We met again at the park. It was in August or September, and that awful heat wave, so everyone was outside, even me, walking with my sister and brother-in-law, and their son in a baby carriage. We talked and acknowledged that we were both going to the same ball the following week. At the ball, which I would not have otherwise attended, we danced twice, no more than appropriate, and the rest of her card was filled by her cousin. There was a final meeting in October, before I was to leave for Scotland to complete my education at St. Andrews Medical School, to gauge each other's interests and my intentions if she were to be available when I returned in the winter. The resolution should be obvious to you now: she wanted to wait for me and I wanted to come back to her. _

_  
Which I did, as soon as I could after my grandfather's funeral. Some time had to be given out of respect for him, and I cannot be married until the summer to anyone, but I was eager to see her. We went to a museum with Mr. Turner, and she said she would inform me when might be a good time to ask you for your permission to formally court her, as we could go no further in these types of meetings, and we did want to go further. _

_If our own brief meeting today was as good as it could have possibly been, then I am grateful to Miss Turner for arranging it, because I would not prefer it to have been worse. It is true that I am the son of my father, and that I am cursed to resemble him, but my whole life has been a contradiction of the altruism about the apple and the tree, loathe as I am to repeat it. I am now a physician after many years in school while my father lasted only one semester at Cambridge and then gambled away the money he was given to study law. I have never previously courted a woman, or even had it much on my mind, as such a thing is not proper for a student who cannot hope to set up a family until he has graduated. You will have to take my word on this, and I understand that it is a hard thing for you to do. A great deal of people have been hurt by my father, and his long shadow is cast over me and tonight I am left in darkness by your decree. _

_Nonetheless I will adhere to my second proclamation, which is to use every small force in my very small power to convince you to give me a chance to prove that I am an honest, decent man who loves your daughter. If you will grant me a chance to stand in my own shoes and not my father's, I would be forever grateful._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. George Wickham_

Exhausted, he barely had the strength to sand the letter and seal it, and leave it out in the study for tomorrow's post before collapsing in bed, this time quickly finding sleep.

... Next Chapter - The Courtship of Anne Darcy


	41. The Courtship of Anne Darcy II

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 41 – The Courtship of Anne Darcy

"She couldn't have," Eliza Bingley said.

"You don't know my mother." Cynthia Turner walked along Bond Street, partially enclosed and therefore warmer, with her new best friend. They may have had ulterior motives, but that did not make their friendship any less sincere. "She has her moods."

"Well, how long do they last?"

"Hopefully not very long." She was in a sour mood, which was precisely why she responded to Eliza's suggestion for an outing. Moping around the house was having no positive effect on her mother, and Matthew promised to work on her while she was gone. There was a third member of their party, but she was lost in the antique shop and said she would catch up.

Eliza explained, "My sister is the odd duck in the family."

"She reads excessively?"

"Not really. She's different in other ways. She's obsessed with the Orient. She made cousin Geoffrey take her to Japan."

"Her husband?"

"Yes. And their daughter had to go, of course. She was two when they left, so they couldn't leave her behind."

"What did she do in Japan?"

"I haven't the faintest." Eliza stepped up into the bookshop. "Georgie, what did you do in Japan?"

Georgiana Darcy didn't look up from the book she was flipping through. "I learned the ancient Chinese secret of Death Touch from my sensei."

"I would ask you to be serious, but I know you are. Are you coming?"

Georgie paid for the book, and they retired to a coffee shop, where they would be further protected from the weather. There, they could relax with hot tea and watch the other shoppers come in and out, gabbing about the latest items.

"I saw George last night," Georgiana said. "We had him over for dinner. He didn't say much. Normally I would say that's just how he is, but that hasn't been him as of late. Still very composed, though." She reached up and adjusted her turban of a bonnet.

"Georgie! What happened to your hair?"

"What?"

"You know what I mean. What have you done?" her sister demanded.

Georgie scratched her head, briefly revealing to Miss Turner that a patch of her head was cut especially short. "There was something stuck in it, so I cut it off. You'll understand when you have children."

"There's a bruise," Miss Turner said. There was a bruise on the skin, mostly hidden by the rest of her hair and completely hidden when she reset her turban.

"It wasn't that easy to get out," she said. "I would ask you if you'd like something delivered to George, but he said he won't take it."

Miss Turner looked at her tea. "Someone else would take that as a rejection."

"They would be misinformed. If he said he would obey your mother's wishes, he meant it. He's always true to his word, and it would just prove her right." Georgie softened her usually harsh glare. "He's not going to stop pursuing, but he's going to do it his own way. If it goes on much longer, I'll ask him how." She looked up and rose to curtsey. "Mr. Turner."

It was Matthew Turner, arriving to retrieve his sister. "Mrs. Darcy. Miss Bingley. Cynthia."

Eliza shot up. "Mr. Turner."

"I would ask for a turn around the bend, Miss Bingley, but it's a tad on the cold side."

"I don't mind," she insisted, and they took their brief leave. From the window, Georgie and Cynthia could watch as they went back and forth for the sheer purpose of doing it in public.

"Eliza's heart is not to be played with," Georgie said.

"I know when my brother is playing, and he is not," Cynthia replied. "Though I can't be sure of it yet. Forgive my distraction."

"You are entirely and easily forgiven."

********************************************

While Georgie was shopping and making subtle arrangements for men to walk into unattached women, Geoffrey Darcy was at home, talking with Colonel Jameson, first name Thomas. The purpose of their meeting was mainly to include his sister in the conversation, but Jameson was easy to converse with. He had been all around the Continent, as well as several of the colonies with the army. "I cannot boast going to Japan of all places."

"It's not easy to get into, and I hardly think they would tolerate a military presence."

"The British interest in China is very strong, and they're not so far away."

"But China is open to foreigners."

"Some ports are. It's said the trade minister wants more – and is willing to raise an army to get them. After all, what will we do without our tea?"

"Didn't the Americans toss it in the ocean for some reason?" Anne said.

"Yes, I think they were drunk."

"Was this while they were still a colony?"

"I'm fairly sure – we'd have to ask Mr. Franklin." Geoffrey turned back to the colonel. "Our cousin married an American, Saul Franklin. He lives here now, but his family owned a plantation. I'm sure he knows."

"It was long ago. It might be too obscure."

Colonel Jameson regaled Anne with his talk of campaigning in South Africa, and he told it so that Geoffrey found it interesting, even with his nurtured distaste for warfare. After the tea was finished, Anne and the colonel took a turn about the courtyard, and Geoffrey watched through the window.

"Papa, what are you doing?"

"Watching Anne."

"Why?"

"Because she's with Colonel Jameson."

"Is he a bad man?"

"I hope not. I think he's a very good man, but he can't be alone with her."

"Why not?"

"Because a man and a woman who are not married should not be alone together."

"Were you alone with Mama before you were married?"

"Yes."

"So you broke the rule!"

He grinned. "I did, and you came along to make it a third person. So there!"

Alison looked up at her father, but before she could question him further, he gave her a playful tug and leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head. Just then a blast of cold air hit them both as Anne entered, followed by the colonel. "I must take my leave. He bowed to Anne, then to Geoffrey. "Mr. Darcy, Miss Alison. Thank you for your hospitality."

After he took his leave, Anne grabbed her brother's arm. "Is he not wonderful? He's so handsome and brave."

"Two attractive qualities, but not all that are necessary for a good husband."

"You sound just like Papa."

"I am supposed to be playing his role, so I think it is appropriate." He offered her a smile. "He is a nice man. I will give you that."

She kissed him on the cheek and went to go rejoin her eagerly waiting sisters. It was then that Georgie returned, shed her outer coat, and embraced him. "I'm going up for a bath."

"How is Miss Turner?"

"Eliza says she's seen her better, and I don't doubt it."

"Do you think we should do something?"

"Not yet. George deserves the chance to sort this one out on his own."

Geoffrey nodded. "He certainly does."

********************************************

Colonel Thomas Jameson knew something was in the air that night – something wrong. The warehouse was lit with just too much excitement, too much eagerness, and that was how men got hurt. He knew that but he removed his coat and shirt anyway.

"Are you all right?" his brother said as he wrapped his hands. "Date go badly?"

"This is not about that. She's a respectable lady."

"And you're quite the respectable man, aren't you?"

Colonel Jameson scowled. "Let's just do this. I don't want to be here any more than you do."

They separated, and Jameson watched the current fight. It was a losing match for the bigger man. He wasn't using his size to his advantage, and the smaller fighter was faster, and was confusing him with his quick punches to the face, stunning him. He eventually went down – the larger man, who had not the brains to win – and people booed, probably because they had bet on the wrong man.

Jameson could take the champion. He was fairly sure of that. The second fight was more important. He stepped into the ring, and there was a round cheers for him. Even though he was unknown to most of them, he would hopefully beat this man who they had gambled against and lost.

Jameson took a moment to size up the fighter, a man with brown hair made darker with his sweat. Jameson had only a few inches on him, but he was more experienced. The other fighter moved quickly to hide how nervous he was, hoping his strategy would work a second time.

The colonel was not allowed to let that happen. It would ruin everything. The bell rung, and Jameson came out swinging, because he was smaller and faster and could get a shot off first. Distracted by a high punch, the man couldn't block his chest, and Jameson plowed into it with repeated blows. The cheering got louder, the moment more heated, and he felt that fighter's rush that would only result in a low later, when he was alone. Jameson couldn't be that happy about it when the other fighter went down, and spit blood onto the floor. They had to drag him away. He had not a scratch on his face, but his chest was red and would be bruised tomorrow. If that was the least of his injuries, he was lucky.

Jameson allowed a moment of disgust for himself before reassuring himself that his punishment was coming. Fortunately the man who entered was about his stature and Irish. The Irishman wasn't that good at blocking, and hadn't watched the first fight (or at least had not learned from it), so Jameson's first punch connected, and he had to draw back very slowly to allow his opponent time to get a punch in. His blood up, the Irishman cursed and hit him square in the nose, which would have toppled a lesser man. Instead he struck back, hard, in the chest, but it did almost nothing in comparison to the torrent of blows he faced. Jameson stayed on his feet for the promised two minutes and no more, falling back dramatically into the crowd. Some arms caught him and set him down, and another dragged him to the side, and for awhile he was oblivious to the difference between the cheers and the jeers. Someone splashed water on his face, indicating it was time for him to get himself up, and he stumbled to his feet. His coat was on a peg, and he retrieved it, and the cloth inside it that he held against his bloody nose. He did not see his brother in the crowd, but that was for the best. If something went wrong, he would have approached him by now.

Jameson limped across the alley to the tavern, and ordered a shot of whiskey.

"You threw that fight."

He liked the voice less than the implication. He looked sideways in horror. Geoffrey Darcy was at the corner of the bar, with an untouched drink in front of him and his unforgiving eyes giving Jameson the once-over.

Jameson wanted to laugh it off, even though neither of them was in the mood. "You followed me here, then?"

"No, just your bad luck. I know one of the fighters." Geoffrey lowered his voice. "You threw the second fight. You could have beaten that man – he wasn't any tougher than the first one. Besides, won't pugilism get you expelled from your post?"

"There's an explanation, I promise you – "

"If you'd told me, I might be more understanding. I have a soft spot for the violent type, as much as I dislike it myself. This was not the way I wanted to find out – or if you showed up with a broken nose. What would you have said – that you fell from your horse? Brutality I can stand. Cheating and lying I cannot." Geoffrey stood. "You'll leave my sister alone and take your flirtations to another victim."

"Mr. Darcy, wait – "

But he was already out the door. Jameson scrambled to find a coin and set it down on the bar before leaving, following Darcy into the light snow despite his open shirt and coat. "Let me explain myself. If you value the truth, you will let me do that."

Geoffrey hesitated. "I have to be back in that awful place. I'll meet you in an hour, at the tavern on the far corner of the street. By then you'd better be cleaned up and damn ready to explain yourself."

His expression was as cold as the night as he turned and went back inside.

********************************************

Precisely one hour later, Colonel Jameson was properly dressed again, his nose and mouth wiped clean of blood, and sitting calmly with an empty glass and an open wine bottle beside it as Geoffrey Darcy slid into the booth. He waved his finger at the wine. "No, thank you. First, are you all right?"

"Nothing that won't heal," Colonel Jameson said, though his back tooth was done for. It hadn't fallen out, but it was too loose and would have to be removed. At the moment, there was a searing pain on his side, but he couldn't show that to Geoffrey. He couldn't look weak. "The short story is that while I am not a gambler, my brother is."

"The one who stands to inherit?"

"Yes." Jameson touched the tooth with his tongue and poured himself another glass of wine. Maybe he needed something stronger, to make the pain go away. "Donald was always the favored son. My father has some sympathy for my younger brother, but as far as he is concerned, there is little reason for me to exist."

Geoffrey just nodded, but didn't betray any sympathy.

"Donald gambles – and badly. As you can see, he's a fan of pugilism, something he was never very good at. He was always too fat and never figured out how to use his weight to his advantage. Also he didn't care for being hit. Anyway, every year he goes through his allowance too quickly and begs for more. My father is old, and not that well in health, so he doesn't see why he shouldn't give it to him – but this summer, he finally cut him off from any further expenses. Donald wrote me and begged for assistance, saying he had some very bad deals with some scary creditors and if he didn't pay them off soon, it would be too much money in interest and it would ruin him – or they would. I promised to help him once, and gave him some of my savings, which he promptly lost.

"When I returned I was furious, but Father only chided me for throwing my money away like that, as if my brother hadn't been the cause behind it. Meanwhile, my brother kept borrowing, because I had nothing I was willing to lend him. I had met a wonderful woman, and I wanted to marry her, so I could no longer support my brother's habit and still have my own reserves to present myself as a decent match. So he took me to see his creditors, and they trounced us both. They are very serious people – not normal bankers. Bad men, and my brother is in deep with them.

"He came up with the scheme. I fight once, win, and then take a fall. He bets big on my second fight. So far, it's worked. I know it's not the most honorable thing, but I don't know what else to do. My father doesn't have the wits about him to understand the severity of the situation. Donald would have to retreat to Calais to escape these men, and even then I'm not sure he would be safe."

"You'll be caught, if you keep doing this."

"I know. Every fight is worse. I can't stand it, and when this is over, I swear I will try never to throw a punch again, certainly not for money. I'm sick of fighting – he's ruined the army for me. My brother has taken away my only passion besides your sister." At Geoffrey's expression, he said, "Forgive me, but it's true. So what am I to do?"

"Do you have any relatives who can help?"

"None that would believe me over my brother. Besides, he would just dig himself deeper. But if I leave him to those men, I don't know what would happen to him. And he's my brother. If some harm came to him, I would feel as though the blood were on my hands." He folded his arms, albeit painfully. "So there you have it. Not a very proud story to be sure. I didn't know how to tell Miss Darcy. I didn't know how to tell anyone. I hoped it wouldn't come to it, but he just gets in deeper and deeper."

"You have to cut him off."

"He's my brother! I love the fat, greedy, cheating bastard. I won't stand to see him come to a bad end with those awful men – those wolves."

Geoffrey Darcy's expression changed. There was hesitation, but some light in his eyes as well. "I think I may have a solution, Colonel, but you must first promise me that if it works, you will never engage in throwing another fight."

"That I can _easily_ promise."

"And you will not continue to hoodwink my sister or my family."

"I swear it."

"Good." Geoffrey finally took a drink. "So how much money is your brother in debt for?

... Next Chapter - Sir Jack Wolfe


	42. Sir Jack Wolfe

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 42 - Sir Jack Wolfe

"I will _not_ throw a fight."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"It was implied."

Geoffrey sighed and lay back down. He reached out to caress his wife's arm, but she pulled away. "I don't know another way to do it."

"I could beat up the creditors."

"I don't know a _legal_ way to do it. No one will bet against Sir Jack, because you have to go winning every match."

"Would you rather me lose?"

The idea, of course, was frightening. Not that the winners faired much better in these things. Seeing his discomfort Georgiana finally laid beside him, resting her head on his chest.

"What if it wasn't Sir Jack?"

"Won't work. I'm too distinctive."

"You're all covered up."

"That's for a reason, darling. One I think even your father would approve of." Her social standing, of course. "If I take off the cap, the wig won't stay on. I've tried."

"Don't wear the wig. Dye your hair, and we'll blame it on ... I don't know, one of Alison's adventures."

"Geoffrey Darcy, you would frame your own daughter?

"It's not like we would punish her. She would be in on it. She's just a child – she can get away with anything."

"You would really have us go through all this for Colonel Jameson?"

"He loves my sister – and she loves him. It's plain on their faces. He's a loyal brother, perhaps not in the best way possible, but it's not his fault his brother's life is in danger. If Charles or Edmund was in some kind of danger, wouldn't you go about boxing all of their enemies?"

"Yes, but I'm _me_."

"And he's _him_." Geoffrey stroked her hair. "I don't want to break Anne's heart."

She did not speak immediately. She weighed her words instead. "Neither do I."

"If you dyed your hair, it wouldn't be enough, would it? Couldn't we get – what is it the actors use? To have funny beards?"

"I'm sure Charles knows. I can ask him, and he's in no position to ask about it. He owes me too much already."

"Could you change your fighting style?"

"Do you even know what San Soo is?"

He kissed her forehead. "I know you're a master."

"It's the art of adaptation. It's just a matter of fighting and still winning. I'm not going to be taking punches to the face like those stupid English fighters."

"I would prefer you did not."

Georgie sat up enough to face him. "As long as they throw their bets down early enough in the fight, it doesn't matter how I take him down, right? I'm not fighting Jameson, am I?"

"No. This fight won't be thrown. We'll have to find someone who's unbeaten – make it a big deal, so the bets are big."

"It could work – provided you'll set aside your cares for my personal safety for an evening?"

"Not an evening. Five minutes, maybe. Try to finish him in five minutes."

She giggled. "I'll do this for your sister and my pride, and those things alone. Beyond that, you are in my debt."

"Your debt? I'm the one who lets his respectable wife lower herself to dressing like a man and fighting in unscrupulous boxing matches."

"And I'm the one who actually has to fight."

"Call it even?" Geoffrey pulled her close. "I think we would both want the same payment, anyway."

"And we'll have to think of something nice for Alison."

He growled. "Later."

She kissed him to show she agreed.

********************************************

Colonel Jameson paid call on the Darcy house the next afternoon – not too early as to interrupt their meal, but as early as possible – and the first person to see him shouted, "Colonel Jameson!" It was Cassandra Darcy, quickly followed by Anne, who gasped at his swollen nose.

"The surgeon says it will repair fine," Jameson said. "Miss Darcy. Miss Cassandra." He bowed.

They remembered their curtseys in time for Geoffrey to arrive to greet his guest. "Colonel."

"Mr. Darcy."

"My G-d, what happened?" Cassandra said.

"The colonel will be the one to explain it – but to Anne, first." With that, he had the servants escort Jameson and Anne to the sunroom, which had a set of glass panels in the doors so that it could be seen right into from the drawing room. Geoffrey took a seat as Sarah Darcy entered.

"What's the matter?" She could only see the couple talking with such animation, not hear them.

"They are discussing why his nose appears broken," Geoffrey said. "He was in a bit of a scuffle last night. It will all be explained." Not fully, to them at least, but certainly to Anne. He clenched his fist as he watched Anne embrace Jameson, but did nothing until they emerged, now separate. "Colonel Jameson."

"I apologize for my ghastly appearance," Jameson said. "The streets of London, as you are well aware, are not all safe, even for soldiers. I was in a bit of a brawl last night, and came out with my monies intact, though I would not wish to dwell on it." He did, with prodding from the other Darcy sisters, reveal some details of the attempted mugging, just as Geoffrey instructed him to do. And Anne played along.

They retreated to the study, the three of them. "I hope I have met with your approval, Mr. Darcy."

"You have, though the sooner we're clear of this mess, the better."

"You really know Sir Jack?"

Fortunately the colonel had his back to Anne, who covered her mouth. Geoffrey glared at her. _How did she know?_ Probably because she was his sister. "I do."

"No one would bet against him."

"Not if he's not dressed as Jack."

"You can convince him to do this?"

"I already have. I just am less familiar with the pugilistic circles. It is up to you to find the current known champion, whom we will bet against." He looked at Anne. "Never gamble."

"You _are_ gambling."

"In this case, I'm not." He turned back to the colonel. "I need a few days notice to prepare."

"As do I. I will keep you informed." Jameson bowed. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy." He bowed again. "Miss Darcy."

"Colonel."

With that he left, and the servant closed the door behind him with Geoffrey's gesture.

"You're really going to let Georgie fight some boxer and bet on her?"

"How did you know Georgie was Jack? How do you even know who Jack is?"

"Please! Georgie's a knight and she has to be the only fighter in the world you would bet on, whatever silly name she comes up with. Where is she?"

"With William. And as I don't want the good colonel to know any of this, she'll be spending as little time in his presence as possible."

"And you really won't tell Papa?"

"Did you hear that man call me _Mr. Darcy_? As far as he's concerned, I am your guardian."

She hugged him. "You are the best of brothers."

"And you are in Georgie's debt."

"I know! She can be my bridesmaid, even though she isn't a maid."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. Something she'll truly enjoy."

********************************************

There was one person to tell, and Geoffrey did not look forward to it. The man was in a foul mood enough as it was. "You want me to what?"

"Be available for one night. If everything goes to plan, you won't be needed at all."

"If everything goes to plan," George Wickham repeated. "Is Georgie going to fight someone?"

"Why is that everyone's first assumption?"

"Because it's a good one." He pulled out his pocket watch. "And as much as I would like to further question the sanity of whatever scheme you've cooked up, I must be elsewhere. I have an appointment I cannot miss."

********************************************

George Wickham knew Miss Turner was not at home; Mr. Turner promised him she wouldn't be for the entire afternoon. Only then would he ring the bell, and give the doorman his newly-printed card. "Dr. Wickham. It is an emergency."

He was relieved of his walking stick, hat, and coat, and escorted into the study. It resembled more of a woman's sitting room except for the desk and books. Mrs. Turner sat by the roaring fire, a shawl around her slim frame. She did not rise when he entered, but he bowed nonetheless.

"I was not to be interrupted except in an emergency."

"I think your daughter's happiness is something a mother would consider a very pressing matter," George said.

She was holding his letter in her hands, so close to the fire, as if she were about to toss it. "I told you not to see my daughter."

"If I am correct, Miss Turner is not at home, and she is not the object of my visit, Mrs. Turner."

She looked down at his letter, wrinkling some of it with her hands. Without warning, she tossed it in the fire and fell back into the chair, sobbing. He did not attempt to rescue the letter; he knelt beside her and waited until she recovered herself. "Excuse me." She raised a clenched fist to her chest. "You can understand if I am a bit emotional."

"I understand, Mrs. Turner."

"I did read your letter – many times. Too many times. I do not need it any longer."

He swallowed and nodded.

"I have not been completely honest with you, Dr. Wickham. Or my daughter. I hoped I would never have to be honest." She opened her fist. In it was a single lapel, from an old militia uniform. "He gave this to me."

"And you kept it?"

She nodded. "He didn't seduce me and he didn't force me. I was his mistress. One of many, perhaps, but I loved him. I know now that it was all lies, but it was all so exciting. I had no mother growing up, and my father was very hard on me, and the only one who treated me like a lady was treated in books was George. I knew he was married, I knew he had children, and I knew he was seeing other women and they were upset with him. I didn't care. He never professed any love for me, but I didn't care about that either. He made me happy, and I whored myself for those precious moments when I was.

"My father heard about it not from him, or me, but from a bar conversation between officers who were discussing the various mistresses of the officers. He called me a slut, which was an accurate description, and said there was no hope for me. He gave me money for the road and sent me to live with my grandmother, who was no kinder except that she dressed me well, and that was how I caught Mr. Turner's eye. We never said goodbye, even though he was still alive when I left Newcastle. I don't think he would have wanted to. It was not in his nature." She clutched the lapel and wiped her eyes with her other hand. "I didn't want my daughter to repeat my mistakes, because L-rd knows most girls sent to London with nothing to their names are not so lucky as I was. So he became an example. I dishonored his memory a bit, but he always said he was amused by being called a rake, so I thought he wouldn't mind. After all these years, it's become easier to lie than tell the truth." She looked at him at last. "I want my daughter to be happy. That is of the utmost importance to me, especially because she's so intelligent, and that makes her so unattractive to the foolish young men out there. It must come from her father, because it certainly does not come from me. Nonetheless we share the common trait of having a soft spot for Wickhams, and you may be as perfectly suited to her as your father was to me for the brief moments that he was." She added, "Please don't tell her."

"If that is your wish, Mrs. Turner."

"At least – not until you're married, if you do marry. Or after I'm gone. I don't know; you seem to have good judgment. Do not bring it up lightly."

"I will not, Mrs. Turner."

"She'll be home soon – would you like to wait in the library? I'll send for some tea."

"I would like that very much." He rose. "Thank you, Mrs. Turner."

"We're all fools to say you look like your father. He was all charm and allure, and you are all humility and conviction."

********************************************

Cynthia Turner returned to the house tired, cold, and hungry. Her brother was in a similar state, and they'd shared his flask of whisky on the road just to keep warm. When he told her the reason she needed to visit a friend and he needed to escort her, she agreed, but the weather was not suitable at all, and she was eager to be home.

She entered and was relieved of her coat and baggage, and proceeded straight into the drawing room, where she knew the fire was always lit. Her mother was sitting there. "Mama."

And around the corner, George Wickham entered, holding a book. "Miss Turner."

"Mr. Wickham!" She flushed. "Dr. Wickham. Forgive me."

"You are forgiven." He had such a happy smile – never false, never cheaply offered.

"I have invited Dr. Wickham for dinner," her mother said. "I hope you do not mind the inconvenience."

"No," she said. "Not at all."

As if sensing the moment, George bowed and left, and Cynthia dropped all pretension and ran to her mother to grab her and hug her as tightly as she could. "Mama."

"You've suffered enough, I think. Maybe more than you had to, but we all must suffer a little in life, so you ought to get used to it. Now, don't keep him waiting. He's been reading in the library for two hours and our books can't be all that interesting."

Cynthia kissed her mother on the cheek and ran out just as Matthew Turner stopped hovering the doorway and entered. "What changed your mind?"

"That is for me to know and you to not inquire, young man," Mrs. Turner said sternly, but with a hint of a smile on her lips.

********************************************

"Did you hear the good news?" Geoffrey said between mouthfuls.

"Yes, I heard that Stewart can say my name. He's my own son, after all."

Lady Heather poked her husband in the arm with her elbow, which was about all she could do with two utensils in her hand.

"That's so cute!" Georgie replied. "He's matured and you have not!"

Geoffrey looked around. "Does anyone want to hear what I have to say?"

"Yes, darling."

"Is this about Eliza?"

"It's about George," he said. "He's finally courting Miss Turner – officially."

"Because he has to do everything so officially," Frederick snickered.

"We had a formal courtship," Heather reminded him.

"_Only_ because your father would have insisted upon it. Otherwise I wouldn't have any of that nonsense and married you." Heather's expression melted. "So is it a safe bet? Because I only bet when it's a sure thing. Can't be losing all of my money to chance."

Geoffrey and Georgie exchanged glances.

"What? Was it? What are you leaving me out of?"

"It's for your own good, I assure you," Georgie said.

"Then it must be something fun and interesting, if it's for my own good. And possibly scandalous. Damn, you're both so self-righteous." He turned to Georgiana. "Who are you fighting?"

She slammed her utensils on the table. "Why does everyone say that?"

"Because we're good guessers."

"Frederick, it's not polite."

"But you don't disagree that this is probably the thing that we're talking about?"

"You ungrateful – " Georgie cut herself off. "Say another word, and next time I have to save you, or pull some ridiculous, deadly stunt for you, it might not happen."

Frederick rolled his eyes. "I suppose if I ever need one of those I'll be kicking myself, so I ought to change topics."

"You ought."

"It's nothing," Geoffrey said. "Don't get her blood up."

"You talk of your wife as if she's some kind of prize fighter. Oh wait, she is."

To which, Georgiana Darcy responded with the very dignified approach of tossing a well-aimed ball of mashed potato in his face.

... Next Chapter - The Ballad of Sir Jack


	43. The Ballad of Sir Jack

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 43 - The Ballad of Sir Jack

"How does it look?" Georgie frowned. "Stop staring like that."

"Forgive me for finding it a bit odd."

"Is it a natural color?"

"_Mama's Japanese now_," Alison said.

"_Oi_," her mother replied. "_No comments from you, little girl_." Besides, her black hair was not nearly as shiny as the natural black of the dark-haired Orientals. It was a duller black, the result of several different attempts at dying (and some burned scalp after a set of misleading directions). Aside from one small section, which was much shorter than the rest, her hair was fairly long for a man's, which was fortunate because the trauma of the dyes curled and strung-out the hair. Geoffrey wasn't eager to touch it – especially now, when it still smelled so foul in a way he couldn't quite describe. Scented soaps would take care of that, but she was afraid to wash it.

Georgie sat down in the washroom chair, and called for Anne. "You had better marry this man."

Anne covered her mouth. "I'll help you brush it."

"Put on the clothes, then. No, not those, the ones that are already ruined."

"I'll replace the gloves."

Georgie rolled her eyes. "Just marry him."

"This should not be her _only_ reason for doing so, if he makes an offer," Geoffrey said with a huff.

Anne put on the gloves and went about the difficult task of making some progress on the tangled hair with an ivory comb. Not much time passed before Charles arrived, and they allowed him entrance. "What is this for again?"

"That's none of your business."

He looked to Geoffrey, who offered no explanation, then sat himself down across from her and opened his case. "I had to get some new gum, so I can't testify to its success, but it's all I have." He opened the gummy glue and put a paintbrush in. "Try not to scratch, or even touch it before it's dry. And if your face is red tomorrow, don't be surprised."

Geoffrey and Anne watched with amusement and horror as Charles applied the glue to her cheek, and began to apply fake hair that would stand as considerable side-whiskers.

"Don't touch it." Charles stepped away. "Not for an hour."

"Don't boxers strip to the waist?" Anne asked. "They do in the papers."

"Not all the time. It's normally to keep blood off the shirt, or to keep your opponent from latching on to something. How do I look?"

"Disturbing."

"This was your idea. Excuse me." She left the room to change, and Charles took his leave, wishing them well on whatever the hell it was they were doing.

Anne tugged her brother's arm. "Why can't I go?"

"I think the answer is obvious."

"I won't say anything."

"They'll know you're a proper lady and you don't belong there. And trust me, you do not want to see Georgie fight."

"Now that makes me want to."

Geoffrey grinned. "Forget it."

"I'll tell Papa!"

"You won't."

She huffed and turned away, because she knew he was right. He returned to Georgie's chambers, where she was wearing a tunic she used to fight in when she was younger and trousers. _He_ would never mistake her for a man, but others certainly could. "Shoes," he said.

"I'm better barefoot."

"They won't let you. And you have very small feet."

"Womanly feet, you mean."

"I'm afraid you do."

She couldn't wear geta sandals, or she would be Jack. That left her with Geoffrey's boots – considerably bigger than she was used to, and heavier. They had to stuff them to make them fit. "English fighters don't use their feet, anyway."

"Not like you do. Do you want to rest before we leave?"

"No. I want to meditate. I _need_ to meditate."

"Alright." He kissed her. "Ugh. I think I have glue in my mouth."

"Then don't kiss me, you git," she said, and kicked him out of the room.

********************************************

It was nearly midnight when Geoffrey began to clothe himself for the night. He heard the bell, but the guest he greeted was not whom he expected. "Hello, George."

"Geoffrey."

"Got your bag and everything?"

He stepped inside, but did not remove his coat. "I do."

"We just said – "

"I'm going with you. I'm presuming it's possible."

"You don't want to."

"Who said they needed the surgeon?"

"She won't."

"Either she does or she doesn't."

Geoffrey sighed. "The men coming over tonight, Colonel Jameson and his brother the viscount don't know who Georgie is. They're betting on Sir Jack, who is my friend, only he isn't going by Sir Jack tonight."

"What's he going as?"

"Liu, or Louis or something." The bell rang again. "That should be them. Not a word, Wickham."

Colonel Jameson, out of uniform, entered with his brother. The viscount was fat, but not monstrously so, and twirled his cane about him when he walked like so fashionable a gent. He insisted that they call him Donald, and they agreed. "What is the game, then?"

"There's a big man in town – his name is Scott or Scotty or something like that, and he's tremendous. He can fell a man with a single punch. Sir Jack will win a few fights to even have a reason to approach this man, and then we bet hard on Jack – who is not Jack tonight, but some other new fighter."

"You really know Sir Jack?"

Avoiding George's eye, Geoffrey repeated, "Yes, I really know Sir Jack."

"Really, _really_ knows him."

He glared at George.

"What does he want? Is he betting on himself?"

"It's worked out," Geoffrey said. "You just bet high enough to get the money you need to pay your creditors, every last farthing."

"That won't help with the banks."

"This charity only extends so far," Jameson said to his brother. "Beyond that, you are on your own. If you don't like bankers, there's a dearth of them in Calais. And you don't know me, have never met me, and I'm not even introducing you to my cousin."

"Fine, fine." Unfortunately, the viscount took this all less seriously than they did. "Let's be off, then? While the night is still young?"

The party of four stopped for a drink; Geoffrey indulged himself with a bottle of wine and carried it with him to the warehouse.

"I say, what do you think of that man?"

Jameson said to his brother, "You are not betting two pence until we say so! No lost money tonight."

"What fun is that?"

"Donald, this isn't fun. It's about money. Show some gratitude for once."

"You haven't a fun bone in your body, do you?"

Geoffrey rolled his eyes at the brothers and abandoned them to find his wife. There were several fights going on, mostly newer fighters, and it was easy enough to find her punching the living daylights out of some Irishman. There was blood on her wrappings, but since it was nowhere else, he had to guess it was from the people she'd hit. That kept his stomach from churning any harder than it already was.

"I think I need to be sick," George said.

"Then take it outside. Don't want to be smelling up the place worse than it already is." Geoffrey took another swig from the bottle. "Go Liu! Hurrah!"

"Do you intend to go through this evening soused?"

"I'm hardly soused, but yes, I intend to soften the blow – no pun intended."

George was not sick, and they all turned their heads at the entrance of possibly the biggest man they had ever seen, definitely in muscle if not in stature. Two men fought him first – one without a chance, and dropped immediately. The second got a few punches off before the monster broke his jaw; they heard the crack.

"Maybe this was a bad idea," said an increasingly intoxicated Geoffrey.

"I'm so glad you're considering this now, when we're standing here."

"Shhh. It's him. You know. Her him."

The current champion – Robert the Scot, they called him – flexed his muscles to an adoring crowd as Liu made his way through the crowd to the circle of men that was the ring. Even with boots on, Georgie didn't come up to Robert's shoulders.

Geoffrey took another drink and signaled to Colonel Jameson across the room. "Terrible idea. Awful idea. Oh G-d, what have I done?"

"You brought a surgeon, your only intelligent move tonight."

The crowd was uproarious in its betting, especially when it got around that someone was willing to bet on Louis, who had won three fights already that night but stood no chance against the champion Scotsman. George just watched on in horror as huge sums were named and flung around. The announcer spoke to Louis, who gave his name and nothing else, and stood silently, stroking his long whiskers. They howled as Robert's name was called, and Geoffrey began to wonder if another fight was going to break out in the crowd before the main one even began. "Rob! Rob! Rob!"

Rob swung first. Sir Jack would have done some elaborate move to leap out of the way; Louis merely swerved his head, took a breather, and remained in stance. If Geoffrey squinted, he could see Georgie's breathing pattern was different. She looked solid, but she wasn't. She was gathering her strength.

He struck again. To everyone else it looked like it went wild, like he had thrown it wrong, because she was just gone from that particular place and time when the fist was there, and back when it wasn't. Geoffrey rubbed his eyes; so did George. "...He is very impressive."

"He is." Another gulp of wine eased the pain of worry.

Rob was off-balance and confused; Louis did not hesitate to strike back, his fist landing securely in his muscle mass like a person punching a rock, and yet he staggered back as if hit by a battering ram.

The crowd hollered. Still Louis maintained the English stance for boxing, even if he didn't bounce around like fighters his size should have been doing. When Rob screamed and charged at him, he struck him again, right over the heart, and the oncoming bull was tossed back as if grabbed from behind by the horns and pulled by a horse. The men surrounding him were silent as he nearly toppled over, but caught himself at the last moment.

"No more games," Rob said. "Fucker." After that it was swing after swing. The ones that connected didn't seem to hurt Louis at all, and always missed his face. He took it in the shoulders and chest, but he did not react as he should have, as if the real force of the blow had hit him.

"Take him down!" Geoffrey shouted. He didn't need to specify as he waved the now-empty wine bottle in the air.

Louis finally opened his hand and slammed the open palm into Rob's stomach. There was too much padding there, but as the other fighter naturally lurched forward, Louis opened his other hand and pushed it into Rob's throat.

Rob coughed, spitting blood into Louis' face, and stumbled backwards. The cries were even louder for those who weren't stunned into silence as Louis finally punched him in the eye, and Rob tumbled and fell on the floor like a heavy sack, still wheezing.

The bell rang. "The winner – Louis!" the announcer tried to grab his arm, but Louis climbed onto his opponent and pushed down on his chest, and the choking ex-champion spit up more blood, and then finally rolled over, breathing but unconscious.

Before he could be congratulated, Louis disappeared into the crowd. Geoffrey crossed himself and wandered over to Jameson and the viscount, who were collecting the winnings and arguing over them. "It's not a run! It was one fight."

"He won't do more?"

"No, he won't do more! You have your damn money – pay them already." Jameson looked up at Geoffrey. "_Thank you_. I'm off to escort my brother to his creditors."

"Send a note and let me know," Geoffrey replied. "No calls – a few days."

"Very well. Send Miss Darcy my regards!"

Geoffrey charged into the street, where the cold air woke him from his haze, and he threw the bottle away. "Let's go. I never want to see that place again."

"Has she had her fill, do you think?"

"She promised me she would stop soon, take a break." He called for a carriage. "G-d I want to be home."

They returned home quickly. The carriages were full of people traversing London, on their way back from some fashionable but overdrawn affair, when Geoffrey and George stumbled in. "Is the mistress home?"

The remaining doorman nodded. "She is, sir."

"Thank G-d." Geoffrey bounded up the stairs, giving George no instructions, and the doorman brought tea out for George, who waited in the study. Geoffrey reappeared, looking shaken. "She will be fine."

"Will be?"

"She's ill, but not harmed. It takes a lot out of her to do what she did. I don't pretend to understand it."

"Nor do I." George finished his tea and rose. "I will refrain from further comment on the evening, except to say I'm happy not to be needed. As long as you're sure – "

"I'm sure."

"Then good night, Darcy."

"Good night, Wickham."

George Wickham muttered under his breath about a madwoman, but Geoffrey ignored it and went back up the stairs, only to encounter Anne in a dressing gown. "What happened? Is she all right? Did she win?"

"She did. The debts are paid – your colonel is free." And it was not for nothing, not with the light in her eyes. "And we will try never to speak of this again."

"Of course." She kissed him. "You smell. I still love you, but you do."

"I am not surprised by either sentiment." He bowed to his sister and hurried back to the washroom, where Georgie sat on the floor, still looking green as a maid carried things away and brought her a fresh towel for her forehead. "Georgie." He sat on the floor beside her. "Where is that lovely girl I married?"

"Under this bloody beard, you drunk." She began pulling it away, taking some of her skin with it, but not enough to make it bleed. "Did we get – what was it we were getting?"

"Money."

"Yes. Did we get that?"

"Jameson got it."

"Nothing for me?"

"Would you like something?"

"I would. I would like very much for you to carry me to bed, because I do not care to move any more tonight and quite possibly tomorrow."

He grinned and gladly picked her up, carrying her to the bedroom. She was so light without his boots. That she had beaten the massive Scots was impossible for a normal person, but not for his crazy, destructive, violent she-devil of a wife, whom he could not have loved more. He helped remove her costume, replacing it with a gown, and set her in bed.

He rang for hot water and it was brought up, and a quick bath relieved him of the grime of the evening, enough for him to crawl under the covers beside her. She flinched at his touch, and her hair still smelled of the dye, but he kissed her on the cheek. "I love you."

"Mhmm." Her voice was nearly incomprehensible. "As long as I don't have to talk, I love you, too."

He kissed her again and said no more.

********************************************

The Darcy house in London rose minus its mistress; her seat was empty for both breakfast and lunch. Georgiana did not rise until well into the afternoon, and then only to sit up and drink ginger tea and eat a few biscuits. Geoffrey carried her into the washroom so that the maid could wash her hair, but the dye did not wash out, even if it helped with the smell. After that she returned to bed, and even left most of the responsibilities with William to the wet nurse. Her cheeks were red and swollen, and there were welts where she was struck, but she did not acknowledge pain – just exhaustion.

Alison visited her, climbing onto the bed beside her. "Did you win?"

"Yes."

"Was it hard?"

"A little."

"Did you hurt him?"

"Nothing he won't recover from."

"Was he a bad man?"

"No. He fought for money. That doesn't make him bad."

"Then why did you fight him?"

"For money." She smiled. "Someday I'll explain it to you."

Before Alison could question her further, Geoffrey shooed her from the room with a promise of a cookie if she went down to the kitchen. "We spoil her."

"I know." She still had the smile on. "Was I mistaken or was George there?"

"He insisted on coming. He was right, I suppose. If you needed a surgeon, wouldn't you want one immediately?"

"Did he lose his stomach?"

Geoffrey grinned. "Almost."

"He is a doctor."

"But it was _you_." He sat down beside her. "The good colonel sent a note – his brother is going to Calais for a holiday."

"So soon?"

"Some of his creditors were legitimate and don't count gambling winnings. He'll come by on Thursday."

"Do you think he will make an offer?"

"I hope not. She can't be married for months, and I can't give my consent. And I definitely do not want Father to come to Town before you've recovered."

"I will," she said, "but my hair won't."

"We'll think of something."

********************************************

Colonel Jameson did call, and only Geoffrey stopped all three of his sisters from swarming him. Why he was the man of the hour, Geoffrey wasn't sure, but he was almost dragging Sarah and Cassandra away by the end of it.

The weather was fine, and the couple took a turn around the garden, having their own discussion that was no one's business but their own. Cassandra's shriek brought Geoffrey back to the window, to see Jameson on his knees. "Oh no."

"I thought you liked him."

"I can't do this – I can't be Father." He turned away. "She's our sister. She can't leave us."

"Now you _are_ acting like our father," Sarah said.

His glare did nothing but make them laugh, which irked him. He retreated to the study, only to have the servant enter. "Colonel Jameson for you."

"Of course." Geoffrey poured himself a glass of brandy. "Colonel."

"Mr. Darcy." He was visibly trying to mute the grin on his face. _Of course, she accepted_. "First I must thank you – "

"You can get to the bit about dropping to your knees and all that," Geoffrey said.

"Uhm – yes. I have asked for Miss Darcy's hand in marriage, and she has accepted. If you would consent – "

"My father must consent." He took a sip. "I have no doubt he will, once he adjusts himself to the idea. I'll send a post right away."

"But I have yours?"

"Do you need mine?"

"Mr. Darcy, I would be lying to say I do not value your opinion on this match."

"Then yes, you have my consent." He rose to shake his hand. "Be good to her."

"I will, Mr. Darcy."

"Please – Geoffrey."

Jameson would have to stay for dinner – there was no say in the matter. Geoffrey could not put it off any longer – and they were to be family. "You've not had the pleasure of meeting my wife, have you?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"I'm coming!" Georgie announced, and the door opened. She walked in, dressed normally but walking with a cane. Her face was still quite red in certain places, and there was a bruise on the side of her neck. "What? You didn't think we were all listening at the door? Don't you know anything about women?"

"I suppose not," he said. "Colonel Jameson, this is my wife, Georgiana Darcy. Georgie, this is the colonel you've heard so much about."

The colonel bowed. "Please – take my seat."

"I'm not ill," she said, but she did sit, and took Geoffrey's glass away so she could have a swallow of it herself.

Jameson studied her queerly. "You're – "

Georgie raised her hand to her husband, his mouth hanging open. "Let him get it. We don't want an idiot in the family."

"You can't be. I mean you were – you're Sir Jack?"

"Sir Jack Wolfe is the title I was knighted under," she said. "Pleased to meet you. I would shake your hand, but let's not be improper about it."

Jameson looked at Geoffrey, who shrugged, and back at Georgie. "It can't be."

"It can."

"Her hair's normally red," Geoffrey said. "Like her daughter, whom you _have_ met. She dyed it for the occasion."

Jameson was still all disbelief. "Jack has black hair."

"Well, it's normally a wig. But I couldn't go as Jack, could I? And as for the story of my knighthood, you're not in the family _yet_, Colonel Jameson." She finished the brandy and set it down.

"How in the world did you beat that man?"

"The explanation would take years," she said, getting back on her feet. "And a discussion of Chinese mentalism. Excuse me, Colonel. I will not keep Anne waiting." She curtseyed, if slowly and stiffly, and he bowed.

Jameson looked back at Geoffrey, who just grinned. "Reconsidering your offer?"

... Next Chapter - Some Decent Proposals


	44. Some Decent Proposals

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 44 - Some Decent Proposals

Geoffrey was correct in his assumption that his father would only grant his consent in person, and insist that the wedding be delayed until at least five months after the funeral. That was the mailed response; his mother and father were on their way. His father's voice in the letter was the same measured tone he always conveyed through his words, but his mother was ecstatic.

Georgie was back on her feet. Unceremoniously, Geoffrey walked upstairs to discover her shaving her head. "It'll grow back," was her response to his wide-eyed appearance. The hair she left was very short indeed, and she wore a turban that covered it completely.

The Darcys arrived two days hence. Geoffrey frowned when he saw his mother. She was thinner, and the bombazine did nothing for her complexion. Upon closer inspection, he could see a light in her eyes that was not present when they last spoke, and she greeted him with great joy. "Geoffrey."

"Mother."

"It was so good of you to take care of Anne for us at this time. Perhaps I was not the mother I should have been – "

He raised his hand. "There is a time for that. She'll be thrilled at your arrival."

And she was. The Darcy sisters returned from shopping to greet their parents, and Anne hugged her father and proceeded to give an un-requested monologue about dear Colonel Jameson, and how wonderful he was, and how Darcy ought to be so pleased, and how Geoffrey was kind but stern, just like Darcy wanted him to be, and they were right to leave her in his hands –

"Enough," their father said with a smile. "Perhaps some of his more admirable qualities can wait until dinner?"

"Of course! Oh, Papa, I am so happy you've come. You will like him, I promise." At which point she went off with her mother, presumably to do the same thing.

Darcy turned. "Georgiana."

"Uncle Darcy."

"You look ... well." He was undoubtedly referring to her lack of hair, made obvious despite the turban by the back of her neck, which had a faint red covering of new growth. "I assume there's an explanation."

"I think you would prefer not to hear it."

"I was thinking the same thing." He bowed, and she excused herself. Darcy shook his head as he retreated to the study with his son. "I know her too well. Tell me she's not put herself or anyone else in danger."

"She has not." _Most_ of it wasn't a lie.

"And Jameson – he presented himself well? He is in love with Anne?"

"If you were present, I believe you would have given your consent."

Darcy grumbled, "Perhaps not so easily."

But it was quickly proven true. Colonel Jameson called the next day, and sat with Darcy for a long time before emerging with permission to marry the eldest Darcy daughter – after which, Anne squealed and hugged him, and Elizabeth embraced her husband. "You did the right thing."

"One hopes."

********************************************

Marriage was not solely on the Darcy family's mind. George Wickham had been courting Cynthia Turner for three fruitful weeks. The difference now was that he could pay call to the house, and was often invited to dinner, where he slowly went about proving his worth to Mrs. Turner. She warmed to him surprisingly quickly, but he had plenty to recommend him: a suitable fortune, an additional income with the respectable profession of a physician, and no reputation as a bawdy bachelor that she could discern through her various social contacts. He was almost unknown to the Ton, having spent years in Cambridge and then the University in France, but his sister Isabel was known as having made a good match to an American. They had a son together, and George lived with them instead of on his own; he was close to his sister and brother-in-law. Of his mother and stepfather there was not much to say; they weren't wealthy and had six children, none of whom were in society, but there were no scandals surrounding the Bradleys.

George was nothing like his father except in appearance. Where his father was outgoing, he was shy. Where his father was aggressive, he was kind. He shared the same love of books as her daughter, but was at the same time not an obnoxious academic around other people, like Mrs. Turner worried her daughter might end up marrying. He got along well with her younger daughter and quite well with Matthew, and he was the cousin of the girl Matthew was showing an interest in. She could see nothing to cause disapproval, but she kept her eyes open.

As for the man himself, he had not the calm inside that he presented to the family. He was nearing being a wreck, but in a good sort of way. Only one obstacle remained, put off for what he thought was far too long.

As promised, he escorted Cynthia to the theater, where they sat in the orchestra section for _The Tempest_, which proved a delight, as they were practically the only ones to properly hear every line. She did remark that the actors were not meant to be seen so close, and dressed appropriately; their makeup lines were more obvious in that sort of proximity, to her great amusement.

They had some time before she was due back home, and they stopped for tea at a restaurant overlooking the Thames. It was early April, and the month made itself known with alternating warm and cold weather; tonight was warm. They walked along the river, and stopped to look at the ships passing through the night.

"You're nervous."

He was; he did not deny it. She put a hand over his, and found it shaking.

"I am. I have meant to say something for a long time. Do you mind if I am frank?"

"I do not."

"I mean to propose to you, but I cannot before you hear this, in all fairness. I love you, and I suspect some of that sentiment is returned, but you should know the man you are marrying." He turned to face her, and she tried not to be shocked, or horrified, but she was. "I am not a rake. It is the obvious conclusion to such a statement, but the real answer is not something people guess. I have no mistress, no former wives, nothing of that sort." She did not release her hold on his hand, so he didn't flee from it, despite his inclination. "To begin, though I occasionally style myself George Wickham the Third, and legally that name is mine, the truth is I am not. George Wickham the First was steward to Mr. Geoffrey Darcy, and my father was the product of an affair between Mr. Darcy and Mrs. Wickham. Mr. Wickham never knew and named the boy accordingly. My father learned this in the last hours of his life – he was my uncle's bastard brother. The current Geoffrey Darcy and I share the same grandfather. I am as much a Darcy as he is."

"Is that what your uncle and father fought over?"

"That and many other things." He swallowed. "The Darcy family has a history of mental infirmary. There is no proper diagnosis, and the effects are not crippling unless untreated or mistreated by doctors, but my grandfather's brother was very sick, and he left the family to live in solitude. My Uncle Darcy, his nephew, is also somewhat afflicted, though he has managed with it all his life. And now, me. It seems to like nephews."

She did not look him in the eye and he was grateful for that. "What are the symptoms?"

"Some of them you know. I am not the most social of people, and prefer solitude and people I know well. Insomnia, but I have a treatment for it, and it is not constant. And when I am under stress, and am shook up, I can become paranoid. I have thoughts in my head that I cannot dismiss – that people mean to harm me. Even people I know and trust. I know they're not logical, but..." They weren't looking at each other, but he held her hand with both of his. It must have been hard on her, as his hands were shaking. "They won't go away. They persist until someone tells me I'm ill and I need to rest from whatever was stressing me, and then I recover. I've never been violent. I've just been afraid. Did you ever wonder why I did not complete my education in France?"

Her voice was uneasy. "Many students move around for different training. This was what I heard."

"I was close, though. I should have graduated last July and taken my exam in the fall at the latest." Still she did not run. "I had a Tutor who I employed for several years, and he knew something of my illness. Together with a woman posing as a nurse, they manipulated me and drugged me, then brought me before a judge to have me declared insane. I was committed to a hospital and they forced me to sign withdrawal slips so they could loot my accounts. They didn't get far before my family started wondering where I was and my cousin came to France and located me. I was six weeks in the hospital, and when I emerged, I was in a very bad state."

Now she showed real sympathy. "Did they catch them?"

"Yes. The woman was deported to some French penal colony; my Tutor is dead of the pox. He was in an institution by the end of it, and they informed me by letter a few months ago. My monies were recovered, but at the time I was barely aware of it."

"I know only of Bedlam."

"It was not like Bedlam. The French are far more sophisticated. I was left mainly alone, and they sedated me when I protested that I was not insane. I do not remember most of the time I spent there."

"It's still horrible." Now she looked at him. From the street lamp, he could see the glint of tears in her eyes. "You don't need to be told that, though."

"It happened, and I was saved, and I recovered. Having a nephew born soon after my return helped. I was irrationally cynical, but it is hard to be so with an infant in your arms. And then my sister said I ought to go out and be social again, and because of her, I met you." He tightened his grip. "And if you'll have this imperfect man who will do his best to be perfect for you, I would like to have you as my wife."

Her response was to fall into his arms, and he held her, but she did not give a response.

"I know I've made it harder than it should have to be. You deserve a man who is whole. If you want to think it over, or to refuse me, I will understand. It will not be easy, but I will understand, and leave you be."

"Because you are such a gentleman," she said, "and are better than many whole men that I know." She raised her head. "I accept."

"You – you do?"

"Yes, Dr. Wickham. I think I would have you if you thought I was from the moon and you had a horn on your head. That is, if you'll have a woman who will go to that level of foolishness for love."

He smiled. "I will."

********************************************

The call had to wait until the proper hour, so George sat on his heels until the next afternoon, then appeared at the Turner doorstep as it chimed two and requested Mrs. Turner.

She met him in the study, and only needed to look at his face. "I can imagine why you are here."

"I imagine you can," he said, "nonetheless I asked for your daughter's hand in marriage and she has agreed. I must formally request your consent. My reasons – "

"Are they anything new? Are they a surprise?"

"N-No," he stammered. "I love her, and I can say with great confidence that she loves me. Even without her inheritance, I have the money for her to live comfortably for the rest of her life."

"Where will you live?"

"My intention is to buy a townhouse before the wedding. I shouldn't be married until the summer, in respect of my grandfather's passing."

"Cynthia did give herself away a bit this morning, though she certainly didn't intend to. You have my consent." She smiled. "Use it wisely."

"Thank you, Mrs. Turner." George bowed, and he could not have done it more enthusiastically. "Thank you very much."

He did not see her smile as he dashed out of the room to embrace his new fiancée.

********************************************

"How is Uncle Darcy holding up?" George asked as he waited with Geoffrey in the library.

"Surprisingly well. Jameson has done much to recommend himself in the attentions he's paid to Anne."

"The proper sort, I assume?"

Geoffrey's face went red. "I assume." Before he had a chance to add anything, his father entered. "Father."

"Uncle Darcy."

Darcy smiled. "George. Congratulations." He shook his hand. "On everything, but especially this. When are we to meet her?"

"Soon, I hope. As soon as we all can arrange it. Thank you, Uncle Darcy." He bowed as the women entered. "Aunt Darcy. Mrs. Georgiana. Miss Alison."

"Cousin Wickham!" Alison ran to George. "Mama says you finally met a woman."

"That's not how I told you to say it," Georgie said, ignoring their laughter. William fought her hold on him. "What is it with you today?"

"He wants to see his godfather," Geoffrey said as William was passed to George. He was much more active, and would scarcely stay in anyone's arms as he used to. Before long he was pulling on buttons and the necktie and whatever else his tiny fists could grab hold of.

"To answer your question, I did meet a woman, and I asked her to be my wife," George said as William grabbed his ear, "though I was a bit more selective than that."

"Are you going to get married?"

"That is the order of things," Elizabeth said. "One hopes."

William and Alison were taken back upstairs as the Darcy sisters came down for dinner, and there were mutual congratulations for the two family members settling in to long engagements, neither entirely unexpected but a relief to hear nonetheless.

"You liked Colonel Jameson, didn't you?" Anne asked across the table.

"I thought him a very responsible man," George said. The specifics of how they met were not something to bring up at the table.

"Is it true about Miss Turner's brother and Eliza Bingley?" Cassandra said.

"You will have to be more specific."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

George smirked. "Yes, they are making an effort to see more of each other. Beyond that I cannot confirm anything. I think they are well-suited to each other, but that alone does not determine a match."

"What else would?"

"They have to want to marry each other, I suppose."

Elizabeth looked at Darcy. "George must be in love; he's smiling." Which made George blush, but he did not cease his grin nonetheless.

********************************************

The cold broke at last, and Mr. and Mrs. Bingley came down to Town because there was simply so much going on, all of it good. Mrs. Turner, Mr. Turner, and Miss Turner were all invited and introduced to their future relatives. They met the Bradleys over dinner at the Franklin house, and everyone else on their own turf, so there were a lot of dinners between all of them. Edmund and Lucy Bingley put in more appearances at home; he was hardly best friends with his brother, but he never had been. His parents were overjoyed anyway, and welcomed him back, only now realizing the extent to which he had been distancing himself and deciding not to question why. There was so much happiness and for so many people wearing black, and they welcomed it.

Brian and Nadezhda Maddox returned from Holland and purchased an old dance hall, and immediately set about constructing what they planned to be a school for the Asian art of combat. They arrived with a letter from Danny Maddox, via the Dutch East India Company. Again it was in Japanese, but he assured them of his health. Danny was living near a shrine, and planned to return before the year was out, which was the first they'd heard of any intention on his part to see Europe again. It came as a visible relief to his parents, who also could not resist the urge to visit Town and see what all the fuss with their relatives was about.

Georgiana Darcy was often at the new building after the initial renovations. There was more to do, as it was not fully set up as a proper Japanese dojo, but she brought her children. Alison was happy to see Nadi-sama and Brian-san again, and William was beginning to crawl, and found the tatami mats an interesting challenge, but not as difficult as wooden floors. Geoffrey watched him go back and forth with utter fascination and the place served as a wonderful indoor playground once the floors of the dojo were done. Isabel brought Edward and Lady Heather brought Stewart, and Brian began to grumble about his school becoming a regular nursery until Nadezhda shushed him and made him go back to writing instruction books while she sewed uniforms.

Lady Heather refused the tea Georgie offered her. "I'm fine. My stomach is just upset."

"You should drink. You're so pale."

"I couldn't think of putting anything in my mouth right now."

There were a few chairs scattered about for the adults, but Georgie sat on a cushion on the floor a few feet from where William was trying to catch up with the more mobile Stewart and removed her turban. Her hair was starting to be recognizable as hair again; in a month or two, she would have a full inch. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"How do you know all of my secrets?" But Heather always told her everything, so the question was moot; only Georgiana knew that Heather miscarried in the winter. It was so early in her term that only she and Frederick knew, and Georgie was her shoulder to cry on. "I'm trying not to jinx it."

Georgie grinned. "I won't tell, but I'm still happy for you."

"If it's a girl, at least Alison will eventually have someone to play with. Where is she?"

"With her father."

"She's the apple of her father's eye, isn't she?"

"For all of their talk of heirs, Darcy men have a preference for daughters. Not that they would ever admit it." She put her turban back on as Brian entered. "Brian-san."

"Mr. Maddox."

"Jorgi-chan. Lady Heather." He looked at the children. "How am I supposed to teach in here?"

"Obviously your first session is going to be how to maneuver around moving targets."

"I prefer not to think of our children as _targets_," Heather said.

Brian removed his shoes and stepped up to the raised floor. "Do you tikes know what you're doing to my dojo?"

"Dojo!" Stewart repeated, as he did with many things he heard and was excited about, but without a hint of understanding. William Darcy rolled over and just stared at the new person in front of him.

"You're lucky you're so adorable," Brian growled, and stalked off, leaving the women to laugh themselves silly.

... Next Chapter - The Book


	45. The Book

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 45 - The Book

Anne Jane Darcy's wedding to Colonel Jameson (soon to be Mr. Jameson, as he would leave the army at the end of his current training engagement in Brighton, which took him away for several weeks to everyone's disappointment) was scheduled for July.

George Wickham and Cynthia Turner's wedding remained unscheduled, though it was assumed to occur sometime shortly before or after Anne's, as he could not be married any sooner than that. In the meantime, George shopped for a townhouse with Miss Turner, and on a few occasions, Darcy, who always provided invaluable advice. George had never made a serious housing decision in his life, much less the most important one he would probably make, and he was happy for the support. Miss Turner had her own opinions, and his uncle said George would be wise to listen to them (if he did not realize that already).

"What do you think of the second one?" George said to his fiancée, as they relaxed in the Franklin house before dinner.

"The garden was very small."

"Do you want a large garden?"

"It's impractical; if I wanted to grow anything at all, there would be no room, so it's just a lump of earth someone didn't cover over in hopes of raising the price."

"I suppose we ought to have a _little_ nature." He was so happy he could sit alone with her, and hold her hand, though frustrated that he couldn't do more. It would come, just now it seemed so terribly far away. "Dr. Maddox would grow herbs in his house. I think he still does. He had poppy for opium, too, but he could never make them grow. Year after year they would die. It must be the climate."

"I think the first house is better."

"The library is not big enough; we'll have to remove the wall to that sitting room and make it part of the library proper."

"We could do that. And you forget the study is very large. It could hold a lot of books."

"And the drawing room."

"If we want to be unfashionable about it."

"My dear, if you make me choose between fashion and books, I will always choose the latter."

"Good, then, that we agree," she said. "What about the master bedroom?"

"What about it?"

"Is it big enough?"

"I suppose. I hadn't thought much on it; I can't imagine using it."

"Why would you – " But then it occurred to her, and he felt her hand tense, and pull away from him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I ought not be so casual about it."

"I didn't know you could be casual about it."

Now it was his turn to blush. "I am a man."

"But you haven't – "

He could not bring himself to answer her.

Cynthia Turner stood in anger. His own relief was that they were alone. "George Wickham!"

"To be fair, I'm eight and twenty, and we've known each other nearly a year. What do you think I did for the rest of my life before you?"

This was the wrong thing to say. Her response was to fume. "You kept a mistress?"

"No, I – uhm, how do I put this – "

"You disgraced – "

"No one was disgraced. I saw a, uhm, courtesan." Courtesan_s_ was more correct, but she didn't have to know that.

"How could you do that to someone?"

He had something to say, but he stopped himself. "What? I'm afraid I don't understand the question."

"_You don't understand the question?_"

"I don't." He rose, and lowered his voice, closing the door that led to the hallway. "I don't understand the question. This was not a seduction, these were perfectly willing – "

"These? Willing? Do you think anyone would debase themselves – "

"It was not – "

"Do not interrupt me!"

He lowered his head, and she backed off. "I did not mean to shout," she said.

"It's all right. I'm not proud of it, but I won't lie to you, either." He offered his hand. "Come."

"What? Where are you leading me?"

He didn't like the distrust in her voice. "I want to give you something." She did eventually give in, and follow him up the stairs, where he made her wait outside his room. He rushed through the pile under the bed, and retrieved the book, which he took and gave to her. "Read this. There are no pictures – it is not that sort of book."

She opened the cover. "'Harris's List of Covenant Garden Ladies.'" She slammed it shut. "I thought this was a legend."

"The coveted holy grail of male indiscretion? No, it exists, but is very out-of-date. There hasn't been a printing in many years."

"Then why do you own it?"

"If you think every man is a saint who does not own a few dirty books, you are not my fiancée, as she is not nearly that naïve." He took her arms. "Yes, it's meant to be a record of women who want to be found by men who want to be naughty, or that was how it began, but it's a record of the lives of many women who chose to do what they do because ... well, they like it. Not every one of them is fallen or debased. Some of them would lift their noses at polite society and its hypocrisy."

"I should not own such a book."

"You are borrowing it, not owning it, though you can keep it if you'd like. I no longer have a use for it. But read it – no matter how it makes you feel at first. There is another world out there, and some of it is terrible and some of it is not, but I will not pretend it doesn't exist."

She looked down at the book, and up at him. "I cannot take this home with me."

He went into his room, and quickly retrieved a large volume of Homer's epics. The _Harris's List _book was thin, and he slipped it in as a sort of heavy place marker, and gave her the massive tome. "No one will suspect. If your brother discovers you have a copy, he'll probably just be jealous." He could see on her face that she was trying to contradict him, but couldn't in all honesty do so. "You will read it?"

" ... I do like reading. Usually." She accepted the tome, with the other book that was not by Homer. "I will read it."

Thankfully, the bell rang for dinner, shattering the tension. "One more thing," he said, touching her arm as they went downstairs. "If you read about something hidden behind terms you cannot understand, know that no gentleman would ask it of a lady."

"Are you a gentleman?"

"It depends if you are a lady."

She nudged him, but in a playful way, and they descended the stairs together.

********************************************

George did not see his beloved for two days. She was caught up in shopping, and he with patients, but they met to see the townhouse they both liked a second time. The solicitor left them alone in the library, mostly empty but still with solid shelves, to consider the possibilities. It could be renovated before they moved in, the solicitor said. It would be larger, and the fireplace would still heat it, though require a bit more coal. There was also room in the study for more shelves. They nodded politely and stood alone in the room.

"I read the book," Miss Turner announced, when his mind was on the current moment and not a former one. It instantly clicked back. "Do you want it back?"

"As all of mine will become yours soon, I don't see it as a necessary step," George said. "If you want to gift it to your brother, you may." He left his real question unasked.

"It was ... interesting. A lot of physical descriptions." It was not easy on her, either. "The book seemed to value salty girls who swear and proper ones who carry themselves like ladies depending on the entry."

"You mean to say it had an inconsistent voice?"

"I suppose it did."

He chuckled. "I do not think there has been a previous attempt at textual analysis of the work as literature, but I'm game if you are."

"Do you think they're true?"

"The stories? As the tale goes, they were at some point. It would not have been popular had there not been any accuracy."

"To imagine it..." She covered her face to hide she was blushing. "You've put awful things in my head!"

"I would apologize, but you don't seem terribly upset." He took her hand and lowered it off her face, and she was not frowning. "Are you?" He kissed her on the cheek, something he was not in the habit of doing, or had even ever done.

There was silence.

"We'll take the house?"

"We'll take the house."

"I'll keep the book," she said. "I can already see it's a bad influence on you."

"You haven't complained yet."

********************************************

When the weather was fine but the Darcys were busy, Charles Bingley III offered to take his goddaughter to the park. Eliza accompanied him, and they sat on the bench, watching Alison toss bits of breads to the ducks in the pond.

"I think Matthew is going to make me an offer."

Charles looked to his sister. "How do you know? He's not even courting you."

"It's not a necessary step. We know each other. Papa never officially courted Mama."

"I didn't know that."

"Well, he didn't," Eliza said. "He was going to – Matthew Turner, I mean – but he chickened out. I could tell. His sister walked in the room and he abandoned it."

"Are you going to accept? Or I suppose the better question is, do you love him?"

"I do. He's a good man – kind, funny, not nearly as foolish as his sister makes him out to be. They just play that game because she was the intelligent one, growing up, and he couldn't match her even though he went to school. He told me that. But I feel bad about it."

"What makes you feel bad about it?"

"Because I'll be leaving you."

Charles had a wry smile for her. "We're not joined at the hip; we were bound to separate sooner or later. And it's not as if you'll never see me again."

"You're just doing so well," she said. "Are you still seeing that doctor?"

"Yes."

"Does he really think he can change you?"

"No."

"Then he's not a quack; nothing can change you." To her brother's shocked expression she answered, "I mean no offense, of course, but it's like asking Georgie to stop being Georgie. When she tries, it only leads to profound unhappiness. So what does this doctor tell you, anyway?"

"That's private."

"I don't mean the specifics. Tell me something general enough but specific enough to still be an answer."

Charles sighed. "He thinks I can find happiness in my life with other things I want – a family. Children. Perhaps, maybe, some woman who understands me, if only a little bit. I can't imagine it, but he says I should try to."

"That sounds a great deal better than a lobotomy."

He laughed. He actually _laughed_ about it. "It does, does it not?"

"I want to know that you'll be all right. Though I suppose it's a heavy question to ask, is it not? To sum up your life like that, and predict the future as well?"

"If you must ask it, then I will answer," he said. "I think I'm going to be all right, on one condition."

"That being?"

"That Mr. Turner makes you a very happy woman. Otherwise I'll – get Georgie to beat him up. I would try, but I was never much of a pugilist. I suppose if I get the jump on him – "

"Enough!" Eliza hugged him. "Thank you."

"I could never be happy if you couldn't be happy," he said.

"Then I suppose we're not really leaving each other after all."

To that, he had nothing to add or subtract; he just agreed. But she already knew that.

********************************************

Charles Bingley II looked away from his ledgers, and removed his glasses. His eyes were tired, and he was tired. He blamed it on the long day and the long dinner, after which he should have retired, but he insisted on staying up, and kissed Jane goodnight before walking downstairs. Charles and Eliza were at the opera with George and the Turners. The only other being still awake was Monkey, curled up on what used to be a perfectly good hat until he destroyed it and made a bed for himself. The primate picked his head up as Bingley slid back in the chair and squealed.

"I'm getting old," he said, pouring himself a fresh glass of wine. Monkey leapt out of his hat bed and scampered across the desk to him. "At least we're doing it together." Bingley wasn't precisely sure how long Monkey would live, but judging from the animal's increasingly grey and wiry fur, and limited enthusiasm where it used to be boundless, he was approaching old age or in it. "I'm talking myself into it; I'm in perfectly good health and my father-in-law died at four and eighty. Eighty-four years! Can you imagine it?"

Monkey squealed, and leapt into his arms, but mainly because he was trying to get at the wine. "No. None for you." He drank and set the glass aside. "Remember last time? No, of course you don't. You're a monkey. Or maybe you do and you're willing to put up with the morning after much more than we are willing to put up with _you_ the morning after, you cheap drunk." To which, Monkey clung to his coat by the pocket and squealed again. "Do you miss India? Do you remember it at all? I'll tell you a secret: I'm going back. I want to take Jane, to see all of those wonders one more time, but I wanted to wait for my children to be married and I haven't exactly rushed them on that. Perhaps I rushed Georgie, but I had a _reason_ to rush Georgie. You miss her, don't you?" Bingley scratched his tiny head. "Now that she's a Darcy. My little baby. No, I don't mean _you_." There was a knock at the door. "Come."

It was the doorman. "Mr. Turner to see you, sir."

_Of course._ He was waiting for it, all night he supposed, or perhaps for months now. He could see it in Eliza's eyes when she talked of Mr. Turner. Bingley set Monkey down on the table and rose to greet the man who would take his other daughter away from him, change her name, and make her a mother. "Mr. Turner."

"Mr. Bingley." Matthew Turner was appropriately nervous. "I apologize for disturbing you at such an hour, but I was informed you were still up and – "

"Think nothing of it." Bingley sat down; no reason to take the news standing up, he felt. "What brings you by my office, Mr. Turner?" _As if I have to ask_.

"I would ask that you grant consent for me to marry your daughter, Mr. Bingley. I asked her for her hand tonight, and she said yes."

"Which daughter? I have two. Oh, one is married, so unless she's a bigamist, that narrows it down." He smiled. "Do you love my daughter, Mr. Turner?"

"I do. She is unlike any woman I have ever met."

"Will you love her when she is old, and not a pretty young thing who makes an interesting dance partner? Forgive the question, but I was young once, too."

"She is not like my other interesting dance partners," Mr. Turner said. "I have had many and none are like her. Yes, I will love her for the rest of my life."

"Well, then, who am I to stand in the way of the all-consuming force of the romantic notion of eternal love?" Bingley said with a chuckle. "Of course you have my consent." They shook hands, and then he embraced Mr. Turner and slapped him on the back. "I suppose I could use another son-in-law around ... to lift heavy things. And you must have some other uses."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now go to your fiancée. No doubt you'll find her listening on the other side of the door."

Mr. Turner blushed, bowed, and left, and there were indeed screams of happiness on the other side. Bingley looked down at Monkey, who was looking up at him in puzzlement, probably at all the noise. "I forbid you to marry. I know it must pain you, but I will take a stand and not part with you so easily."

Monkey leapt up his coat and onto his shoulder as he extinguished the candles and left the study. Upon entering the hallway, his youngest daughter hugged him and thanked him, and promised her love, which was a promise already fulfilled.

There was one person who wouldn't leave him, if he could help it, and she needed to be woken. "Jane," he said upon entering her chamber, and nudged her awake. "Our daughter is to be married."

Not fully awake, Jane Bingley turned over and ignored Monkey climbing over their bed to get to his, a pillow high up on the dresser. "At this hour? She couldn't wait?"

He laughed and kissed her. "No, my darling. Not a second more."

... Next Chapter - An Officer and a Gentleman


	46. An Officer and a Gentleman

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

* * *

Chapter 46 - An Officer and a Gentleman

~1807~

It was ten in the morning – too early to be up and certainly too early to be sober if one was up, in George Wickham's esteemed opinion. He would have chosen to be otherwise, had he had any choice, but since his daughter's birth he had little choice, as she would wail incessantly whenever seemed to suit him least.

They had no nurse and no nursery, so the cradle was right beside Lydia's bed, which had the unfortunate circumstance of also being his, meaning he was never far away from a screaming baby, or so it seemed to his very sensitive ears. Lydia named the girl Isabella, after his mother, because she was for some reason so insistent on repeating the past. Wickham wasn't sure why; he had little recollection of her. His memories were of his father, and his godfather, and of course Darcy, the lucky bastard if there ever was one. No goodwill from his godfather could ever make that less than clear. Still, it was better not to question Lydia on her preferences, as it might lead to some rant about money or bonnets or gowns or some such nonsense.

Their purses were already empty for the month, and it was only the second week. His army pay barely covered his normal expenditures, much less his wife's, and now there were two rugrats to feed and clothe. Their second payment, the monthly donations from _Mrs._ Elizabeth Darcy and _Mrs._ Jane Bingley, had yet to arrive. He made a mental note to watch the post, as he would rather have his hands on them before his wife, lest she spend them all away before he could have his share.

All of this he was contemplating over wine too cheap and watery to get him decently drunk when Lydia entered the room. "I need you to take George out."

"He's not a dog," he said. "He doesn't need to be walked." He was a boy, and Wickham was fairly sure he was three.

"Just get him off my hands. I don't know what's wrong with Isabel, but if she cries any longer, I'll have to call a doctor."

"You can't call a doctor because a baby is crying. Even if you wanted to, what will we pay him with? Your new bonnets?" His only amusement was watching her face go red with anger as she stomped out of the room.

She did not leave him in peace, but returned with his son, who was silent on the matter. It was his redeeming quality. "Just take him out for awhile."

Wickham shrugged and took his son's hand. It was so much smaller than his, and softer. "C'mon, kid. It's this or your mother."

His son didn't put up any protest. He was a quiet boy, which pleased Wickham. Sooner or later he'd be tearing up the town (he was a Wickham), but the few years before that came to be could be bearable. Still, the way he looked up at him was unnerving, as if he took him seriously – _as a father_.

George Wickham never thought of himself as a father. He could barely manage to think of himself as a husband without reaching for the nearest wine bottle. Everything else was incidental.

The day was too bright and the streets were too loud. It was more like London than Newcastle before his eyes adjusted to the light and he shambled along the walkway, dragging his son with one hand and holding the bottle in the other.

"Papa!"

"I'm not your papa, I'm your father," he snapped. "You're a boy, not a girl."

"Father," his son repeated, fear in his eyes.

Maybe he was too harsh. Wickham took another swig, finishing off the bottle, and tossed it in the alley. "So, what do you want to do?"

His son pointed, and Wickham turned around. "What? The parade? You know that's all we do." This particular parade he was not part of, it being a different unit of his regiment. "A good way to pick up girls, but you wouldn't understand that. That's all we do, march and flirt. No wonder we're losing the war." He met his son's stare, and reminded himself he was three. Well, he was old enough. "Your father doesn't do much. I suppose you've noticed that. I march and I drink and I put up with Lydia, of all people. You deserve better."

Like he did, he remembered. Wickham thought he deserved better; he'd always thought that, but now he couldn't think of a reason or a time he'd proven himself worthy, as Darcy would so easily put it if given a chance.

Little George ran to him and clutched his jacket, trying to bury himself in it. Wickham looked around helplessly. "What is it?"

"The noise."

They were close enough to hear the rifles firing. "It's just the riflemen. Do you know what they are?"

"No."

"They're soldiers. They shoot the French."

"The French are _here?_"

He snickered. "No, they're just practicing. The French are in France." He could see his son's fear, from his eyes and his movements, and patted him on the head. "Look, the French are far away. You don't have to be afraid of them. They're not coming here. Besides, you're an Englishman. Englishmen aren't afraid of the Frenchies. Didn't you know that?"

His son shook his head.

"Now you do. Come on, I'll get you an ice or something." He had some coin left, that he was saving up for the officer's rounds tonight, hoping he could turn it into more, or at the very least buy himself some entertainment. But George wouldn't move now, and Wickham had to pick him up, which was not easy but not impossible either.

"Can we see the horses?"

"Why the hell not?" Wickham said, and put his son up on his shoulders. "Hold on tight. Your mother will have my ass if you fall or something." They walked across to the front of the dress shop, where they had a better view. There was a stand on the corner, and he bought his son the outrageously expensive lemon ice and set him down on the bench.

"Thank you, Father." So his son was a quick study. _Good for him. And his legs didn't even reach the ground._ At that moment, as the horses passed by and with the ices, his son had the happiest face on, as if nothing in the world could bother him.

Wickham could not remember being that happy. Even when he was drunk, and had himself positioned over a girl who wasn't Lydia Wickham, or Lydia Wickham if he was drunk enough, he could not recall that kind of happiness. Nor could he remember someone thanking him. Maybe this brat wouldn't turn out so terrible after all. Not that either of them set very good examples.

George Wickham sat down beside his son as the horses went by, followed by the riflemen. "Hey, kid – do you know what a promise is?"

"A promise is something you say you're going to keep, and then you don't."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Who told you that? Your mother, right?" His son nodded. "You're a real chip off the old block. A real promise is something you say you're going to do, and then you keep your promise and you do it, even if you don't want to. Can you make me a real promise?"

"Yes."

"Don't turn out like me. Or your mother. Promise me you'll be a good kid who'll turn out as someone decent." To his son's expression he said, "I know you can't really understand what it is you're promising, but for your own sake, do it."

His mouth smeared with melted lemon ice, George Wickham the Third said, "I promise."

Wickham patted him on the head. "Good. Now don't let your old man down."

"I promise!"

"Yeah, well, I hope you're better at keeping them than I am."

The strangest thing of all was that he meant it.

********************************************

~1832~

It was not yet nine in the morning, but George Wickham the Third (as the Church of England and the law officially considered him) was already up, and had been for hours. It was the only time he could remember fussing over his clothing, even though the tailor was far better at making the decisions than he was and he knew it. He still prodded and straightened and played with the edges of his new suit as he stood in the waiting room of St. George's. He could not imagine how he could have been praying; he only knew one man who would not be too nervous to even think of the notion, and that man did not recognize this as a proper church.

George was happy for the distraction when Geoffrey entered. "George. Don't you look the dandy."

"Is it? Is it too much? Is it too much color?"

"You can't _always_ wear black, no matter how hard you might try. And as for decisions of fashion, you'd best ask someone else, as I haven't dressed myself since Japan."

"Tell me I look half-decent."

"You don't want me to tell you that, or you wouldn't, if you had an ounce of confidence in yourself."

George frowned. "I remember a certain nervous groom."

"He was marrying a crazy woman; he had reason to be nervous." Geoffrey's good cheer was either putting him off or a relief; George couldn't decide. "So did my father or Mr. Bradley give you a talk? Because I got an earful before my wedding, but I suppose they figure you don't need it."

"Mr. Bradley had some ... choice words. All of them horrifying."

"He does have six children."

"Stop reminding me!"

"I'm distracting you, am I not? Or do you want to dwell on the ceremony?" Geoffrey had a bottle of wine with him, and he let George take a swig. "Miss Turner looks beautiful, or so Georgie assures me. That was all she would say to me between curses this morning."

"If she is in a delicate condition again, I can hardly relieve you of all of the blame. Or any of it."

"She stopped taking the tea."

"I do not rescind my previous comment."

They were alone by intention; George did not want an assault of male relatives before his wedding. The days of pre-wedding celebrations were beginning to wear on him, and the peace of his honeymoon would be short-lived, as they would be out of their new home for Anne's wedding, and then Eliza's. It was all too much. He would have taken another drink, but he had some very important lines to speak before a large audience.

The bishop cleared his throat, announcing his entrance and for them to take their positions. Was it that time already? Was he ready? "How do I look?"

"This is going to sound strange, but perhaps the best I've ever seen you," Geoffrey said. "All things considered."

"Is the color alright?" It was his only blue coat.

"George, she's going to marry you even if you appeared decked out in pink and covered in manure. Now go!"

That was what best men were for, apparently – pushing people to the altar who had not the courage to be there themselves, even though they knew it was good for them. It was right, or he wouldn't be doing it. He avoided the looks, however happy, from his family. They were, unconsciously, judging him, and he couldn't blame them for it. It was that sort of moment, where he ought to be who he said he was, and deserving of the love he was going to get by marrying Cynthia Turner.

She approached the altar, escorted by her brother, who kissed her on the cheek and let her go, leaving her life as Miss Turner and handing the title to her sister Maria as she ascended the steps to the altar.

Somehow, thanks to some proper alignment of the stars or G-d finally shining His light down on him, George Wickham the Third managed to speak the proper lines, pledging his life and loyalty to the woman across from him. The ring was new, with no ancient Wickham past, like so many things in his life. It was a fresh start for the couple announced as Dr. and Mrs. George Wickham.

He did not remember much of the wedding breakfast. It was crowded, and he had a drink or two on an empty, churning stomach. To hear the same sentiments over and over, however genuine, was something that was always grating to him.

"Your father would be proud," his mother said, to his surprise. He wasn't aware his father put much stock in the institution of marriage. "We're parents; we want a better life for you. Even George must have felt that way."

"Thank you." His mother rarely said anything in his father's favor, so whatever had inspired it, he was grateful. He was even more grateful when Cynthia dragged him away, pulling him into the sitting room of the hall. "Hello."

"That's all you have to say to me?"

"We don't have time for much else." He kissed her – properly, for the first time as a husband to a wife. She didn't stop him, or even freeze up, and had they not been concerned about the very real threat of an interruption, it might have been a bit more exploratory.

"Feel better?"

"Yes." It was not a lie.

"Shall we face the crowd together?"

"If we have no other option, yes. We shall." He took her hand, and it was hard to tell who was holding tighter as they returned to the reception.

********************************************

The day he turned sixteen, George Wickham waited through the whole day, took his birthday money from Mr. Bradley, and went to Harcourt House. He was terrified, but he had stronger forces driving him than fear. He was clear on his request – he wanted someone clean and experienced. He wanted to learn, and the woman he was directed to was more than willing to teach him, for the right price. She smoothed out the series of embarrassments that was his naivety about the physical experience and he returned home the following morning his clothing askew and a stupid grin on his face, and fortunately no one at Gracechurch was awake to see it.

Twelve years later he approached the marital bed with a sense of confidence but a twinge of fear, this time of a different variety. He couldn't describe it or define it, but it prevented him from pouncing on his wife like a loosed animal. All of his careful planning – because he had given a great deal of thought as to how the night would go – became instead a blur of giggles, embarrassed snickers, and fumbling in the dark. There were candles, but not enough to substitute for daylight, and he explored instead with his hands.

"That tickles!"

"I know."

He could do more than tickle. With Cynthia's inexperience, it took probing, reassuring, and some fumbled attempts before they were truly moving as one, and then only for a brief time before they collapsed together, and lay still.

It was to be her bedroom proper, when it was furnished, but at the moment it had only the bed and the dresser, and a chaise in the corner. It mattered not – it was _theirs_. They owned it, they claimed it, and they belonged there.

"How do I compare?"

"Hmm?"

"To the whores."

He did not have to think of an answer. It simply came from him. "There is no comparison." He never knew before what emotional attachment could do to fuel the physical act, whatever minor attachments he might have had to some of his better courtesans. "All of my life, I just wanted to be left alone. I think I would have been alright – mad, but well in a certain way – if they had left me alone in that hospital, not bothering me with doctoring and feeding. I would have just ... disappeared."

She turned over to face him, and stroked his cheek. "That would have been very sad."

"I know. It was what I wanted. I was a sick man." He kissed the palm of her hand as it came by his lips. "I think you've cured me."

"Must we always talk in clinical terms, or is this what I get for marrying a doctor?"

He laughed, and she joined him. It could be said that there was not anything that night that they did not do together.

********************************************

Darcy proved once again to be a valuable asset. In the days before the wedding, he helped George find a reliable staff that ended up being invaluable in the first few days, when neither newlywed left the house. The furthest they went was to the dining room or the new library. Their wedding gifts – those that could be carried – were brought up to the mistress' chambers, to be opened and inspected at their leisure. Neither had much inclination to dress properly or even stray far from bed.

"What is it?"

He gave her the card. "I don't recognize the name."

"It's my cousin."

"The one who wanted to marry you?"

"Yes."

"I ought to thank him. Otherwise I might not have danced with you."

She nudged him. "Open it."

It was a two-volume set of the _Mirror of Graces_, with a note inside. "'Please see chapters on wifely duties and attend to your health.'"

"That bastard!"

"I'm sure he only has your best interests at heart."

"I've been lectured enough on wifely duties, thank you very much. And as to my health, are you a physician or not?"

George chuckled. "What is it that makes the married feel it so necessary to impart their holy wisdom on the intendeds? They must have endured the same thing and yet the cycle repeats itself."

"Why? What did they say to you?"

"Aside from things I either already knew or didn't want to know, that I should be a loyal husband, and that I should be in close fellowship with the phrase, 'Yes, dear.'"

She kissed him. "Good advice."

He would have said something to counter it, but his mouth was otherwise engaged until long after he'd forgotten the conversation entirely.

... Next Chapter - Dani-sama


	47. Danisama

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

UPDATE: Book 2 is now available for pre-order on Amazon! Follow the link on my profile page or search "The Plight of the Darcy Brothers" on Amazon. If you're not going to buy the book (and it is very similar to "The Price of Family"), at least add tags that describe the book or click on pre-existing ones to help people on searches. Thanks!

* * *

Chapter 47 - Dani-sama

In July 1832, Mr. Matthew Turner and Mr. Thomas Jameson were married to Eliza Bingley and Anne Darcy, respectively. After much haranguing, a double wedding was decided upon. Both needed to take place in London, because the cousins had recently left jet and their mothers were still in it, so full celebrations in Derbyshire would not be appropriate. In Town everyone could meet, briefly, and celebrate together for as long as anyone wanted to stay in London during the summer heat.

Jameson's father, the earl, came in from his estate to congratulate his son on a fine match to a very wealthy bride. The earl's feelings towards his first son and heir cooled while the viscount sat in Calais, waiting for his debts to default, and for once, young Thomas, the former colonel, was in the spotlight. His father was so happy as to gift his son a modest house in London, an older holding which had fallen into disrepair but could easily be fixed up to be a fine place to live. The notion that Anne would be in Town, not Derbyshire, distressed her parents, but Geoffrey assured them that there would be a place in Lancashire for them. The Jamesons would not go wanting.

Mr. Turner had his own inherence, nothing in comparison to Eliza Bingley's but enough to assure them a comfortable life suitable to their status. This was all before the Darcys, Bingleys, and Maddoxes presented their gifts, insuring that neither couple would suffer any financial want if anyone could possibly help it.

Dr. and Mrs. George Wickham made their first public appearance for the pre-wedding dinner and then the ceremony. Even Isabel Franklin was ready to admit how downright bizarre a happy George was, though he was hardly noisy about it, and would sit quietly with a very contented smile on his face, as if he was the only one who was in on some joke. He never strayed far from his wife. Cynthia Wickham, having just been given away by her brother, now watched him wait at the other end of the aisle as Charles Bingley II gave his second and last daughter away. Mrs. Turner was pleased with her new relations, which would serve Miss Maria Turner well when she came of age. Some of them seemed bizarre (especially the blind professor and his mad, heavily-armed brother) but the point was they were all wealthy and respectable and that suited her just fine. That her eldest daughter seemed to be on cloud nine with her new husband was icing on the cake.

The celebrations continued well after the couples finally but politely escaped to their respective houses. The families gathered at their respective locations, mainly the Darcy house. A somewhat melancholy Charles III was amused by a drinking contest with Geoffrey and Frederick. None could be declared winner before they collectively passed out in the billiards' room as George stood over them, shaking his head as Cynthia tried not to laugh. Alison evaded her mother for much longer than she normally did, and was found sleeping with her head on her grandmother's lap in the sitting room. Elizabeth Darcy had no complaints for her apologetic niece, who finally got Alison to bed without waking William. Time, booze, and filled stomachs whittled down the crowd. Charles and Jane said goodnight to the Maddoxes, then returned to the study, where a mildly-inebriated Darcy seemed to be in a staring contest with Monkey.

"I thought you didn't care for him," Bingley said.

"I don't. Which is why I am determined not to let him win." The rules did not seem particularly set, and Monkey squalled and tossed a fig at his opponent before leaping into Charles' waiting arms. "Be gone, rodent."

"He's not a rodent; he's a primate," Elizabeth said.

"He's as good as a rodent," Darcy muttered, to which, Elizabeth took the decanter of brandy away and set it back on the tray, out of his reach. "No sympathy for the suffering father!"

"Not from the suffering mother, no."

"We are all in the distressing position of having our daughters marrying well and for what could possibly be defined as love as well as money, and yet instead of celebrating, we brood," Jane said. "Mama would be ecstatic."

"She had her share of tears at our wedding," Elizabeth replied.

"I do not recall such a thing."

"I do," Darcy said. "Mrs. Bennet came up to me during the breakfast and nearly collapsed on my shoulder."

Elizabeth looked at her husband. "I never knew that."

"It does not honor her memory to repeat the story."

"Where was I?"

"Speaking to Mrs. Gardiner, I believe."

"Be grateful! If not for her reassurances, I would have been utterly terrified of our wedding night."

"Whom? Your mother or Mrs. Gardiner?"

Jane held her hand over her mouth as Elizabeth answered, "Aunt Gardiner, of course."

"We were so naïve."

"We were so young!"

"Darcy had color in his hair."

Darcy growled at Bingley. "As if you do."

"I have color! Jane can find it. She tells me I have it somewhere. Jane?"

"Charles! You're drunk."

Bingley sat down next to Jane. "On this of all days, indulge me."

Jane rolled her eyes and ruined his hairstyle with her hands, but eventually found and plucked one orange strand, which he held up in triumph. "Behold my youth."

"A truly impressive specimen, Grandfather Bingley."

"Darcy!"

"On this, of all days..."

Elizabeth huffed. "I'd forgive you if you would stop squabbling with him for ten minutes. It's some sort of eternal contest between the two of you."

"Five pounds says you're the first great-grandfather!" Bingley pointed to Darcy.

"You won't want the title first?"

"No bets!" Jane said.

"Please. Give us the impetus to reach the age where we're eligible for the title."

"He has a point," Elizabeth said of her husband. "If longevity costs only five pounds, I would offer the money myself."

"And a good sense of humor also seems a requirement," Bingley said, and raised his glass. "To Mr. Bennet."

On that they could all agree, and have one last drink for the evening. "To Mr. Bennet."

********************************************

Geoffrey Darcy was disturbed from an otherwise heavy sleep by the constant rustling in bed as his wife got up and returned to bed. He pulled her close. "Mmmm."

"I hate you."

He had enough sobriety to answer, "I believe this one ... was your – was it your decision?"

"Are you implying that the others weren't?"

"I – I don't know. What answer do you want?"

"That one will do fine."

He found and stroked her stomach. It showed no signs of the life growing within it, but it would soon enough.

"G-d. You get this silly, sentimental look on your face – "

"I am truly blessed."

"You are truly drunk."

"I love you."

"I know." Georgie cradled him, watching his smile as he fell asleep. "I love you, too."

********************************************

"Lord Gendai! Lord Gendai!"

Normally the rush of oncoming children, no doubt desiring something, didn't bother Mugen quite as much as it did at present, when he was trying to nap in the sun. "Oi. Can't you see I'm sleeping?"

"Headman-sama said to get you."

"He was afraid to do it himself?"

"He says a monk is here to see you."

Mugen picked his head up. "Chinese or Japanese?"

"I don't know, Lord Gendai."

He groaned and got to his feet, taking his time about shouldering his sword and wiping his eyes. "Fine. This better be worth it." He looked down at the waiting child. "Do I look like I have candy for you?"

"...Yes?"

Mugen huffed and reached into his sleeve, removing a piece of candy wrapped in fish skin. "Here." He did not give the child a chance to thank him as he walked off toward the village. It was a long enough walk as it was, and he didn't feel like running. His head still had the heavy feeling of being awoken from a sound sleep.

He did not approach from the main path. He strayed from it, his geta clacking against the rocks by the beach. The ship there was no trader ship, so the bell wasn't rung. It was barely more than a canoe, and it pushed away, leaving behind its passenger, a Japanese Zen monk in traveling robes. His head and face were obscured by the bowl-shaped hat and he walked slowly with his staff. It was a shakujō, a wooden pole with a large ring at the top and several small ones latched to it so it jingled when he walked, having the dual purpose of scaring insects away so the monk would not accidentally step on them and harm a living thing, and serving as an excellent weapon for bashing people on the head.

The villagers who spoke Japanese and not the island tongue questioned him, and he answered in a quiet, polite voice, and accepted no alms.

"_Oi_," (Hey) Mugen said, not moving from his high position. "What's this?"

"Mugen," he said. "Good to see you."

Mugen leapt down, landing between the villagers and the monk. "He's with me." That was about all Mugen needed to say for them to clear a careful path for him. The monk was a slow walker, but he put his staff to good use, finding every branch and root that would have blocked his way.

"My place is here," Mugen said, and the monk tapped his staff against the porch, removed his sandals, and stepped up to it. Only then did he remove his hat.

"Thank you."

Mugen hadn't even served him yet. "For what?"

"For not saying anything."

Mugen did not respond, and returned with the tea. It was cold, but the weather was hot and he brought the tray out anyway, and set it between them. "You've gotten it enough, I'm sure."

Danny Maddox nodded and smiled, but it was sort of a crooked smile from the way his head hung down. Like a monk, his head was shaved, but one still could see the incoming red hair. Without his hat, he was unmistakably foreign, even with his eyes permanently shut by scar tissue.

"Did you at least get the guy who did it?"

"No. I deserved it." Danny chuckled. "I was whining about going blind, so he fixed that. I didn't whine about _that_ anymore. Hurt like a bastard, though."

"And then?"

"He left me on the steps of a monastery. They took me in, and in a year, he returned. He never apologized, but I understood. Besides, he was a good teacher." Danny found the cup and lifted it to his mouth to drink. "He freed me from all of that horrible fear. Of the inevitable, I mean."

"I would still get him in the back, if I could."

"You're less forgiving."

"I'm not a monk."

Danny ate his fill of rice and fish. "My parents wrote me, but it was in English. Brian-san wrote me in Japanese. I think he suspected something. Are you in contact with them?"

"Hai, with Jorgi-chan."

"And?"

"She has a boy – I forget the name." He went into his house, and Danny waited patiently as he collected the letters and brought them outside. "Wil Yam."

"William."

"Yes."

"Named after his grandfather, Fitzwilliam."

"Gaijin names. And your brother, Fedarik."

"Fredrick. How is he?"

"He had a son, with He Ter-sama."

"Lady Heather. What's the boy's name?"

"You're not making this easy on me!" Mugen said. "Stu Wart."

"Stewart. It was our grandfather's name." Danny laughed. "Frederick, a father. I can't imagine it. How is everyone else?"

"Give me time. Here – Bennet-san died."

"Mr. Bennet? Georgiana's grandfather?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Winter. The letter came a few months ago." Mugen looked over the letter. "In his sleep. I don't remember him."

"He was old, and had white hair. Walked with a cane. I believe he once lived in the south."

"Birthday in the summer?"

"Yes."

"Now I remember. You were all little kids then."

"We were all young once. What else?"

"Her brother – Edmund – married. No children. Maybe something is wrong."

"You always assume the worst. And my sister should be married by now. Her name is Emily Maddox."

"Yes. I remember Jorgi wrote me to ask you to come home, if I saw you. Your parents are very worried. I told her not to worry."

"But you didn't know where I was."

"I told her not to worry anyway."

Danny smiled. "Thank you. I did write them, but I had to have someone write for me, so it may have tipped them off about my sight. How it happened, they can wait a bit to hear."

"In person? You're brave."

"I cannot think of a better way."

Danny would stay until the trader ship came to take him to Shanghai. It went without saying. He set his pack down, but did not have any clothing but his robes, and did not seem interested in any other clothing. He was a link to the West, even though Mugen technically knew more about it than he did at the moment.

"You can come with me, if you'd like."

"Go to England? What use do they have for me there?" Mugen shrugged. "Jorgi's not training now. She says she wants to have another child. She fought some in between, but she's a mother. Besides, I have nothing left to teach her."

Danny knew it was too much to ask for a visit from across the world. Mugen had already been to England twice, which was twice more than almost anyone else of his race. He promised to return again once more before he died. "I have to," said Mugen. "It's the only way things can happens."

"I thought you didn't believe in fate."

"I didn't say I believed in fate. Don't put words in my mouth."

Danny laughed.

"You're lucky I won't hit a blind man."

"Some people don't feel that way."

Curious, Mugen quietly picked up a rice ball and hurled it at Danny, who blocked it with his staff, then slowly set it back down as if nothing had happened.

"Damn." Mugen smiled. "I suppose you'll do fine."

"My disfigurement will hardly have the ladies rushing to me."

"For the right price, they will."

"Not _those_ kinds of ladies."

"Oi, is there any other kind?"

Danny chuckled. "You would think that, wouldn't you?"

"So, monk, what are you going to do back in dead god-worshipping England?"

"One can be mindful and accepting of the present moment without abandoning belief in the savior of mankind, one hopes," Danny said. "As for my monasticism, I would prefer not to be alone all my life. In my present condition it seems too much work." He turned in Mugen's general direction. "What about you? Content to live alone on this island? Who is the monk here?"

"I'm not waking up to meditate on nothing. If someone comes, someone comes. I don't care."

"You always say that – "

" – but I don't mean it. How do you know? I don't remember you acting so smart. I'm done with most of what I have to do in this life. And the next ... we'll see."

********************************************

Summer became fall, and Frederick Maddox happened to be home when the messenger came to say that there was one Daniel Maddox Junior awaiting a carriage at the coach stop near the shipping center for the East India Company. Frederick ran to tell his wife the good news as the footman called for a carriage, then dashed for the door. He could not remember so long a wait to reach the stop. It was still fairly early, when fashionable London would be sleeping off last night, so he couldn't understand the delay, and kicked impatiently at the other seat.

Finally, there he was. Danny stood out, not just because he was Danny, with his curly red hair cut short, but because he sat in black robes with a purple sash knotted over one side. A wooden staff with a brass circle to top it off rested on his shoulder.

"Frederick?" he said, not rising. Maybe he heard the intake of breath.

Embarrassed that his reaction was not faster, he said, "Danny." He picked him up to hug him, but also to see the extent of the damage. "Tell me who did this to you and I swear to G-d, I'll get Georgie to hunt them down right after her term."

But Danny only smiled, the way their father did. He had no black glasses to hide his eyes, nor would he find a pair that would fully cover the extent of the scar tissue that enveloped them. Someone had – obviously intentionally – cut both his eyes with two blade strokes. He could not even open his eyes, should they be somewhat intact, beneath the red scars. "He freed me. I don't expect you to understand it, but he freed me from that terrible fear. Also, I was being a bit of an ass to someone I should have treated with more respect."

"I knew something was wrong when you sent letters in Japanese, but Mugen didn't know. Georgie wrote him."

"I know. I didn't tell him until I saw him, and that was on my way to Shanghai," Danny said. "I heard about Mr. Bennet."

"Aunt Bingley is still in jet."

He nodded. "I also heard that I am an uncle."

Now Frederick could finally smile. "And you are about to be one twice over. Heather is nearing confinement. So is Georgie, but don't say that to her face, as she's been a bit grumpy about it."

"She had a son, no?"

"She did. William Darcy."

"Very appropriate." By now the porter had collected what few bags he had and it was time to go. Danny walked with his staff guiding him, and refused Frederick's arm. "How is Emily?"

"Very happy. She's in Cambridge with her husband. Our parents are in Chesterton. Mother will be overjoyed to see you. She's been so worried."

"I know. She did not fail to communicate that to me in the letters I received before I lost my sight." He stopped, and swung his staff so that the brass end latched on to a street kid, and with one strong tug Danny dragged him by his coat back to them. "Excuse me, but I think you owe my brother some coins."

Frederick looked in his pocket, which was empty. "The little thief!"

The child looked up at them in disbelief, but did put coins into Danny's open hand. Danny shook them. "It was more than this."

"How do you know?"

"Because I heard more. Now cough them up or I'll show you what a Japanese abbot does to disobedient monks, and I promise you won't care for it."

The boy grumbled, but put two more pence in his hand before taking off in the opposite direction as fast as he possibly could.

Frederick took the coins back from his brother, not quite sure what to do with them, as if they had taken on some otherworldly power. "I wouldn't have said this five minutes ago, but Danny, I think you'll be just fine."

... Next Chapter - Dani-sama


	48. Epilogue

**Obligation and Desire**

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Book Updates: Book 1 is still selling well (thanks to everyone who bought for buying!), and book 2 is available for pre-order on Amazon. Follow the links on my profile page here on FFnet or search "Plight of the Darcy Brothers" on Amazon. If you have an Amazon account but don't want to buy a story you've read before, please help searches by clicking on the "tags" on the page (scroll down) or add your own descriptive tags.

Book 3 has been delayed until February 2010 instead of November 2009 for complex editorial reasons. This book is "Left to Follow" in the series.

General Updates: Story 11, currently unnamed because I'm terrible at titling things, is the final story in our series. It picks up about a year after this story and has three segments - the first dealing with events in the two years after this story, the second dealing with various events happening over the years that needed to be covered, and the third dealing with the conclusion of the story and the deaths of the original generation. I don't know when this story will be up. Normally I say "a month" but a month from now I will hopefully be in India on vacation (and doing research), so maybe I'll get something started before India, maybe it'll wait. We'll see. I'll keep you posted on my forums. If you are not a member and wish to join, email me after you register so I don't think you're a spammer and delete your account.

The next story will continue the Charles III plotline (which just couldn't be resolved in one story) and have a big plotline for Edmund Bingley, and pretty much marry off anyone else who is going to get married in the second generation. Also, Mugen returns to England! (briefly) The next story tries to wrap up everything, so there's a lot of cameos or at least discussions of ancillary characters. Thanks for following me on this journey, and wish me luck on publishing it!

If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment. Thank you!

* * *

Chapter 48 – Epilogue

In February 1833, despite the harsh winter weather, Brian and Nadezhda Maddox returned to Town proper from their home outside of London to open up Brian's Bushido school. Spring term was only a few weeks away and he wanted to be ready. The first term was somewhat haphazard: Brian was still testing the curriculum, Nadezhda made most of the uniforms too big for the students that enrolled (pre-Eton boys with parents eager to have them out of the house), and it became obvious that they needed a second teacher. Brian was a good instructor, but at five and sixty he tired easily as a sparring partner. In the first term he managed, but that was because the boys were largely just swinging their wooden swords around. Sooner or later a few would claim some accomplishment, and propriety demanded that Nadezhda remain on the sidelines.

The roster was much larger for the spring. Oriental knick-knacks were all well and good, but no one could boast authentic instruction in Japanese swordplay, admittedly with an English teacher. He took younger students than Angelo's Fencing Academy, so there was a large base to draw from of bored, rich boys. He would have his hands full.

That was why Georgiana offered to come down to London to develop the curriculum, despite her condition. They were alone in the closed school, just the three of them and on occasion Alison. She only had to get there and back, and heavy winter shawls were enough to cover her sizable belly.

Danny Maddox often joined them, though for obvious reasons he could not serve in the instruction of the school. Instead he used his allowance to buy a share and contribute to the upkeep of the school, and he was exceptionally schooled in the concepts of _bushido_, the way of the warrior. There was not a person who did feel bad for Danny, and wish him a miracle, but he would have none of it. Like his father, he let his mother hold him and cry, then went on with his life, limited as it would be. The East Asian Society of London wanted a Japanese language teacher, and he happily took the position. He lectured on Buddhist and Shinto beliefs, though he did not emulate his uncle by staying in Japanese garb. Most of the time he wore Western dress, walking along the streets of London with his top hat and his cane, and his brother usually by his side. Frederick was closer to him than ever, and was the primary reason Danny lived in London and not Chesterton with his parents. He lived not in the Maddox townhouse but in Frederick and Lady Heather Maddox's house. He was there for the birth of their daughter, whom they named Danielle. He spoke to Alison in Japanese, which made her instantly love him all over again (though she had never truly forgotten him), and he spoke it to William as well, to Geoffrey's amusement. Aside from being dressed he made his way through the day mainly on his own, spending long hours in meditation or walking. He seemed content.

On a particularly cold night, he gathered with his aunt and uncle by the fireplace in the office of the dojo to plan the curriculum for the new students. Georgie was there, but Alison was home and asleep.

"Well, that's why," Brian said, shutting the window. "It's snowing."

"Snowing makes it colder?"

"Hell if I know, but it is." He put his hands in front of the fire.

And it continued. They weren't looking, so caught up on the manual Nadezhda wrote and their suggestions to it. Hours passed, they drank a little to keep warm, and Nadezhda turned her head to Georgiana. "Jorgi-chan, are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," she said, not sounding it. "It's just false pains. It's too early."

"What is?" Brian said, and Nadezhda declared this a "woman" thing and took her into the next room.

She returned a few minutes later. "Brian, go wake the servants." They lived, when in Town, in the apartment above the dojo. "And do it quickly. Dani-chan, tell them to start fires everywhere. It's freezing up there."

"What is it?"

"What do you think it is? Now go! You have to get a midwife."

"Midwife?"

"_Must I repeat myself?_" she shouted in Romanian, and Brian snapped up. He opened the front door, to be greeted by several inches of snow. "Don't look at me," she said, "because you're going out there once you get your boots, and you're getting us a midwife. Then you're going to the Darcy house to tell Geoffrey his wife is in labor."

It took a full two hours for Brian to do all of her requested tasks while Nadezhda and Danny sat beside an increasingly agitated Georgiana Darcy. When Brian returned, he was soaked from the snow, but he had a midwife, and he had Geoffrey Darcy.

"Georgie." Geoffrey kissed his wife, though she wasn't interested in sentimentality. "Do you think you can be moved?"

"It's too late for that, Mr. Darcy," Nadezhda said with authority, and allowed him to comfort her for awhile before her screams became too much, and he was sent to the parlor.

A few hours later, just as the snow was letting up, Georgiana Darcy delivered a small but healthy baby boy in the guest bedroom above the Maddox dojo. She would have to stay there for at least a day, and the child would be monitored carefully, but none of this brought comfort to Geoffrey – until he held the baby in his arms.

Danny entered and stood over him. "What color is his hair?"

"Red." The infant had a few strands of red hair, like his mother and sister. "I suppose it should matter a bit more to me how this happened, but it doesn't." He looked to his sleeping wife. "It doesn't really matter." He stroked the tiny hairs on his second son's head and laughed.

Many days passed before the Derbyshire relatives were able to make the journey, eager as they were, to the baptism. By then the danger for Georgiana was long past, and the infant gained some weight and was judged healthy for his age and condition. William, who was now walking, kept running back and forth in Georgie's bedchamber between her bed and the cradle, not sure what to make of this small creature that was his brother.

For many years afterward, to his own embarrassment, the tale would be told and retold of how Brian Darcy came into the world.

The End


	49. Preview for Story 11

**Preview for Story 11  
**

by DJ Clawson

News: So this story is long, and I apologize for the long break in between stories, but trust me, it'll be worth it. Book 3 has been a difficult edit, and will be slightly different from the version online of Left to Follow. It will be out in Feb 2010. It was a bit more pressing than story 11, the final story in this series, because of publishing deadlines.

Story 11, still untitled because I'm bad at titling things, will start at the end of May. I would start it earlier, but I'll be out of the country for most of the month, touring India and doing some research. In the meantime, I'll give you chapters 2 and 3 of story 11 to tide you over.

NOTE: If you are having trouble registering for my forum, it's because I get about 40 new users a day to be approved and 39-40 of them are spammers. If you register, email me at dj_clawson at yahoo dot com and let me know your username so I can authorize you. You can still post unregistered comments in the open sections, but not in the locked sections. There will be some delay to your request while I am abroad, but seriously, email me with your username. Otherwise it will be hard to tell you are not a spammer.

Anyway, enjoy, and I'll see you at the end of May!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George Wickham – alternately Junior or the Third, depending on one's perspective – stayed still as he felt the movement beside him. He remained so as Cynthia left, then returned. "Sorry to wake you."

He had to be honest. She was worth too much to him. "I wasn't sleeping."

"You don't have to stay in bed, if you really can't sleep. I'm barely in it anyway."

"'s fine."

She grumbled, not in a particularly fine mood herself, and turned over. George rolled on his side and kissed her shoulder, but could not bring himself to commit more than that. She felt ill, and for different reasons, he felt ill, and she did not want to discuss it.

But he did want to discuss it. He wanted to comfort her, and tell her that everything would be all right – unlike the miscarriage. This time it would be fine. He wanted to do the husbandly thing and assure her, and make a promise he couldn't necessarily keep because it was out of his control. He was enough of a doctor to know that. And she might express concern for him, but he didn't want that. He could not tell if his recent bout of insomnia was at all related to her condition, but he didn't want her to think it was. Instead he lay beside her and tried to sleep.

It must have been noticeable – a sharp contrast to the happy first months of his marriage – for Geoffrey Darcy to say something. He was in Town for some investment-related meetings, and they invited him over as soon as he appeared, fresh off the new train from Liverpool, and like an overeager child in Christmas about it.

"It was incredible," Geoffrey said between mouthfuls. "Mind you, it was noisy, I nearly fell off, and I felt sick the whole time and for a solid hour afterwards. But to be in London in hours and not days! You have no idea, man!"

"You don't seem so sick now," Cynthia Wickham said with amusement.

"As long as he doesn't think about the ride home," George said. "On that monstrous machine."

"You sound like my father. Have some courage," Geoffrey said.

"How is Mrs. Darcy?" Cynthia said, changing the subject.

"Fine, fine – very well. Very busy with Brian, now that he's walking. Not very much, mind you – he'll still sort of grab things as he goes, but he's much harder to keep track of. Oh, and William – I swear, he did say this, when I said I was going to Town. He asked for his Cousin Wickham."

George grinned. "Did he?"

"He then said, 'Does he have a present for me?' Where he got the notion, I have no idea. Maybe Alison put him up to it." William had claim, of course, as George's godson, to a present every time he saw him, and he seemed at two to be aware of the pattern. "He said it without batting an eye. Because Georgie wasn't in the room, of course."

"Of course."

Cynthia wasn't feeling well, so the after-dinner card game was brief before she retired and they moved to George's study, where he always had exceptionally good whiskey.

"Congratulations," Geoffrey said, and touched his glass to George's. "Concerning your wife, of course."

George hadn't said anything. It was too early and they were too nervous. "You could tell?"

"I'm familiar with the early signs of a child," Geoffrey said with a roll of his eyes. "Is she well?"

"She's well."

"Is she better than you?"

"Don't push it."

"George, I'm exhausted, I'm still dizzy from the train, and I've had three more drinks this evening than I should have had. I'm not in a position to lie to you and say you look the same as you did at Christmas."

George looked down at his drink.

"Mrs. Wickham I will excuse. You, on the other hand, are not with child."

"I do not need another person criticizing my health."

He must have said it with a little too much vehemence, because Geoffrey did not immediately respond, and when he did, his voice was considerably softened. "If I may – "

"You may not offer me marital advice."

Geoffrey frowned, and looked around the room, as if the titles of the books would help him. Finally he smiled and said, "I am far overstepping my boundaries here, but allow me to presume that Georgie is keen on the idea and invites you to Lancashire."

"What?"

"Have I fallen into Japanese? Because I do that sometimes to answer the children," Geoffrey said. "You should come to Lancashire. Mrs. Wickham's never been, has she? And you're not the most sought-after doctor in England yet, so surely you can find some time in your schedule. We'd love to have you. I know _William_ will certainly want you there."

"You're serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" He added, "And you are not required to come by train."

Geoffrey stayed only two days in London before returning to the north, after which he sent a letter confirming that Georgiana thought it was a wonderful idea and they ought to come up and enjoy the fine spring weather as soon as possible. "So we've been invited to Lancashire. We should be honored," George said, after reading his wife the letter.

"What is special about Lancashire?"

"They don't invite people often. It's _their_ hideaway – when they want to be away from Pemberley and their parents and siblings. And it is quite lovely. I was there twice, if only briefly. Very secluded. Wonderful walking paths in the woods."

Cynthia looked up nervously. "And we won't be intruding?" She wasn't on as friendly terms with Georgiana Darcy as she was with Isabel Franklin or other female relatives of George. There was no animosity between them, and he explained to her many times that Georgie acted around women in a manner that could be interpreted as cold, but was not meant to be. Nonetheless, she had never truly seen Georgie with her guard down.

"They would not feel the obligation to invite us if they did not want us there." George knew, in the back of his head where rationality managed to survive, that the trip would be good for him. "We'll get out of Town for a few weeks, away from all of this smog and noises all night. That is, if you feel up to traveling."

"You're the doctor."

"I'm not the sort of doctor who shuts women up for nine months and you know it," he said, managing a smile, and she agreed to the plan.

*******************************************

They did not leave immediately. Cynthia wanted to wait until the worst of her early symptoms were over, and George had appointments that he did not want to cancel. Nonetheless the idea of a holiday in the north buoyed both of their spirits, which kept them together through the long nights of sleeplessness. She would doze between bouts of illness, and he would read by the candlelight on his side of the bed, sometimes to her.

It was through Isabel that they heard something suspicious was up at the Bingley house, and George withstood three days of Cynthia's nudging before he agreed to pay call to his cousin Charles, and find Edmund Bingley there, though he was out for the day and had no set time for his return. Charles greeted George with his usual good-natured openness, but even he was not willing to let the details flow freely about Edmund's situation. "He is separated from his wife."

"Is it serious?"

Charles just nodded.

"Does he plan to tell the family?"

"When he has to. Which will be soon – Father's due next week for some company business. Then everyone will know and you'll undoubtedly hear it from however far away you are at the time."

"I don't know Mrs. Bingley very well," George said. "They were married while I was in France, and then I was married, so we never really crossed paths. And they went to her family for Christmas."

"Yes."

That was all Charles would give him, and George thanked him for his time. He returned home only to discover his wife's diggings were far more successful, in the form of a letter from Eliza Turner, which she would not allow him to read but spelled out for him in one word, "Divorce."

"Impossible. Edmund would never spend that kind of money on something that doesn't make money. And he'll never be married again."

"It's what she said," Cynthia defended. "Charles knows someone in Parliament who can submit the bill."

"Then it must be mutual, for them to even try it. They have no children; you would think he would just get an annulment."

"Unless she's with child."

And, presumably, not by Edmund Bingley. Yes, it did make sense. Edmund would want to divorce her before she gave birth, and not have to take responsibility for the child as if it were his. George shook his head. "He deserves better."

"To be blunt," and Cynthia always was, which was what he loved about her, "you are not as close with Edmund as you are with your other Bingley cousins."

"I'm not, but that doesn't make him any less of a cousin. He's family, and that's that. If he comes soliciting for funds, I'll be shocked that he hasn't tapped someone with more money, but I'll still give him something."

"How do you know he's not in the wrong?"

"They're probably both in the wrong in some fashion beyond our understanding," he said. "That doesn't mean I don't support my cousin in what must be a terrible time for him."

"Families have disowned each other for less."

"Not our family," George said, and squeezed her hand.

*******************************************

George and Cynthia Wickham made their slow, horse-drawn carriage way up to Lancashire. Three days later they arrived at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy the younger and their three children, a house gifted to them by Geoffrey's parents as a wedding present.

"Cousin Wickham!"

"Master William! Come back here right now!"

Their approach had slowed enough to hear outside the carriage, and George opened the door as the carriage stopped to greet his overeager godson, who managed to avoid his Nurse and ran barefoot in the grass, wearing a blue kimono instead of a toddler's dress. His hair was wild and his hands were already dirty as he reached out to grab his favorite cousin and godfather.

"Somehow I knew you were on pins and needles for our arrival," George said, and extended a hand to help his wife out of the carriage as the footman scrambled to help them. William further ducked away from Nurse by grabbing George's legs and hiding behind them.

"William!" There was one voice, however, that could make the little boy visibly tremble as he stuck his hand in his mouth and looked up at his cousins. Georgiana Darcy (nee Bingley) was fast behind him, though not so much in a run because her dress did not permit it and she was carrying her younger son. Brian Darcy, now past his first birthday, clung to his mother's side. "What did I say about running without shoes?"

George smiled. "No harm done." He bowed. "Mrs. Darcy."

"Dr. Wickham. Mrs. Wickham. Welcome to our home. My husband will be along shortly." She curtseyed and nodded to Cynthia Wickham. "Brian, do you have anything to say to our distinguished guests?"

Brian smiled, but only buried his face in her shoulder. "He's not really talking yet," she explained. "Fortunately the other children do their share."

"Cousin Wickham, do you have candy?"

He looked down at his godson. "Candy will ruin your teeth."

"Cousin Wickham does not have everything you want," Geoffrey Darcy said, announcing his presence. Alison tagged behind him. "George. Mrs. Wickham."

"Mr. Darcy. Miss Darcy."

Alison curtseyed. "Dr. Wickham. Mrs. Wickham."

They could finally proceed down the last stretch of land before the entrance to the house itself, which was no great estate but was a fine enough country house for a family. "Welcome to Lancashire, Mrs. Wickham," Geoffrey said as the servants took their coats. "I trust the ride was at least bearable."

"Did you ride the train?" Alison interrupted, but neither parent reproached her for it.

"I'm not quite that courageous," George said.

"It was pleasant to see the country," Cynthia added. "Not have it go rushing by."

William was eventually successfully convinced that he was not to be showered with presents anytime before they were unpacked, and taken with his brother and sister back to the Nursery so the adults could relax and the Wickhams could refresh themselves after their journey. Cynthia ate ravenously as George sipped his tea and imparted what little news from London he had to impart. "I'm afraid we're not in the right circles."

"I knew something was wrong when Edmund was living at home with Charles," Georgie said, not mincing words. "So I wrote him – Edmund that is – and he told me about the divorce. Wasn't interested in a lengthy explanation."

"Who would be?" Geoffrey said. "Well, by now everyone knows. We've just escaped a bit of it, being up north, and we might as well stay up here if it gets published."

"If he goes through with it and submits the papers, it will be published," George said.

"Unfortunately we are lack a scandalous king to distract the Ton," Georgie said, "but I'm sure they'll lose interest, especially with the Season in swing. And next year he'll have to endure being an eligible bachelor again."

"And we wouldn't wish that on anyone," Geoffrey added. "Would we, George?"

George grimaced and looked down at his tea.

After a brief tour of the house, the Wickhams were shown to their chambers, where their trunks were unpacked and they could retire before dinner, still a few hours away. Cynthia didn't let her movement betray it, but her eyes looked weary, as if the road was catching up on her all at once, and as soon as she was out of her corset she collapsed on the bed.

"Do you want some tea? Or do you just want to sleep?"

"I just want to not _move_ for awhile," she replied as George sat beside her and stroked her hair. "If that is acceptable to you."

He put his feet up. "That is very acceptable to me." But nonetheless he did not sleep, or want to. That still eluded him.

*******************************************

Dinner was a thankfully brief affair, not drawn out like Cynthia Wickham expected. There were too many distractions from the children, who ate separately but ran freely about the house by the adult's meal time. Brian Darcy still needed the constant attention of his mother, which incited the ire of a jealous William, who was put in line by his loving but authoritative sister Alison. As no real emotions were being harmed, the master of the house mostly watched with amusement. All of the activity called for an early retirement after a few rounds of cards. The library was not astounding as she was told the Pemberley library was, but its selection was unique, containing many books on the far east and many in Eastern languages.

George took a book on Chinese poetry, but was only a few pages into it when, to Cynthia's surprise, he fell asleep, the book still on his chest. She removed it for him and put out the candle on his side of the bed.

Cynthia turned on her side and drifted off. She was not surprised to be woken by George's startled movements, for which he was deeply apologetic, but he was still shivering when he settled back down and she draped an arm around him, an action he didn't always let her take. She did not ask what phantoms were tormenting her husband. Sometimes she did, and he even on occasion told her, but they were not something he could talk about, however fantastical his worries were. He was not always like this; she suspected the miscarriage set it off, and he was already better. He would admit to neither. He had his pride and his defenses, both of which could not be easily conquered, even by his wife. After nearly two years of marriage she told herself she knew sometimes it was a battle to fight and sometimes it was something to let pass on its own.

He woke only one more time, and then finally settled. She could not find rest herself as the sky turned from black to blue. Her stomach was uneasy for reasons that did not involve George (at the moment).

"Ring for tea," George said, announcing that he was awake, if still positioned the same as she rose. "They won't mind."

"I might go for a walk around the house."

"Do you want me to come?" He did not sound much like he wanted to go as much as he wanted to reassure her.

She smiled. "No. I'll be fine."

He did not protest, and she quickly put on a gown and coat against the morning chill and made for the kitchen. Sure enough, the cook was up and the fire was lit despite the darkness clinging to the sky, and there was plenty of ginger on hand for her tea. She sat at the long and empty table, not set for the morning yet.

"_Oi, Okaasan_, I want to go with you!"

"Not today. Go back to sleep!" In the hallway, Georgiana Darcy said something else, but it wasn't English, and William scuttled back up the stairs. She emerged from the darkness, and it was easy to see why Cynthia hadn't recognized her silhouette. She was wearing what looked like some odd Oriental version of men's clothing and was barefoot. Her hair was always too short to style, but it was not brushed. "Good morning, Mrs. Wickham."

"Mrs. Darcy."

A servant appeared with a hot cup of coffee, which Georgiana swallowed in a single gulp. "I'm going for a walk. Would you like to join me?"

This early? But if Mrs. Darcy thought it was safe, it probably was. "I will."

The servant at the door fetched not only a heavy cloak and bonnet for Mrs. Wickham but shoes (sandals, more accurately) for Mrs. Darcy and another item that she slung over her shoulder. When they stepped outside and into better light, it was revealed to be a sword.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Georgie smiled. "You mean, does my husband know about this?"

Cynthia blushed.

"The answer is he's deaf, not blind." She ignored the doorman's offer of a cloak and began down the path into the woods, and Cynthia had to rush to catch up with her. "Though when I left him just now he was still asleep. I cannot say I do not occasionally take advantage of my husband's auditory deficiency."

"My husband says he was injured when he was younger."

"He fired a rifle with it pressed against his ear," Georgie explained, deftly moving around the muddy patches on the trail. Cynthia did her best to mimic her movements. "It ruined one side and some of the other, but it saved my life. Really I should be more grateful, but the rescue was mutual."

"Gypsies?"

"A Spencean Radical with poor judgment about whom he chose to incite," she replied. "George was there – he can tell you about it."

"I'm trying to be polite."

"If you never discuss bad things, that makes for some terribly uninteresting conversations. But no, I suppose, it's not very _polite_ in the way we're supposed to be polite."

Cynthia smiled. Georgie met George's description. In many ways she was like him, speaking the obvious and the painful truth even when it was better left unsaid, but she was daring about it. "My husband is not always very polite, however much he tries to be."

"If he tried all the time, he would never say anything."

It was not right to laugh, but Cynthia did anyway, as queasy as it made her feel. "You have an advantage of knowing my husband longer."

"But not necessarily _better_," Georgie said, stopping in front of a small waterfall. "I have known him since his father died, yes. I'm told I met him before that, but I've no memory of it. I remember the day his father died and then the funeral, and George came from Newcastle for it and the only thing I remember of that day was thinking jealously of how much taller he was. It wasn't until I went out and he was old enough to travel on his own that we saw more of each other. Mrs. Bradley isn't close to my mother."

"They're sisters."

"Not all sisters are close." Georgie paused, but didn't say whatever was on her mind, likely concerning her own sister, who was now Cynthia's sister-in-law. It struck Cynthia that the two of them couldn't be more different, but she didn't say that to Georgiana, who recovered quickly. "George is, as you know, very close to Uncle Darcy, so he would come up in the summer or for a holiday or whatnot, and Geoffrey would be terribly jealous because George was older and got to drink and know all kinds of things we weren't permitted to know yet. George got to go to White's first, he got to go to Cambridge first. We were young and we didn't understand how lucky we were in our own families, even if we thought we did." Georgie leapt right up onto the rock overlooking the little pool of water. "I was thinking of letting the children swim here this summer, but the water isn't clear enough for me to decide. I've been putting it off."

Cynthia peered into the water, which was hardly crystal. "You are asking a girl from Town, I'm afraid."

"I'll see what grows here when it gets hot." She jumped off, landing next to Cynthia, and they continued their walk. "If it means anything to you, George was always the responsible one. He was left out of anything we really wanted to do but shouldn't have, which meant he found out and joined us anyway, scowling with disapproval the whole time, but we needed him there. There had to be the voice of reason, even if you didn't listen to him."

Cynthia could imagine a younger George doing everything Georgiana described, and for a moment the tormented adult as of late was forgotten. He was never carefree, but he could be amusingly flustered. Could she imagine him around children – _his_ children?

The idea quite literally made her head spin, and she fumbled for something to stabilize her, which ended up being Georgiana's shoulder, and the other woman guided her to a fallen tree that made an excellent bench. "Excuse me." She did not want to be sick in front of her host, in the middle of a forest and far from someone to help them, so she bit her lip so hard it brought tears, which she wiped away.

After a long silence, Georgiana said, "I've been thinking about Geoffrey's uncle, Mr. Grégoire. He never preaches his Papistry to us – in fact, very much the opposite – but there is perhaps something to be said for the Virgin Mary."

Cynthia swallowed and looked up.

"It seems to me as though every religion has some sort of holy mother, or fertility goddess, for men to respect and moon over a bit and women to seek out when they need a guiding spirit. And thanks to Henry the Eighth and Martin Luther, we just have the local vicar, and I've not yet met one who was particularly sensitive towards the entire conception of womanhood, except in the necessities of telling us to behave and procreate." Georgie added, "I was terrified the first time I was with child. I was young, I was not on the best of terms with my mother, and I wasn't married. Being married was supposed to fix everything in the eyes of G-d, as if the wedding wasn't stressful enough no matter how much I loved my husband. I was so sick I barely made it through the ceremony. I don't know how he put up with me."

"I didn't know – "

"Of course, George wouldn't tell you that Alison was born barely eight months after we married," she said. "Because he's _polite_. And Alison's old enough to understand something of it, so now it's never discussed, but there was no one at the church that morning who didn't know why Geoffrey Darcy was marrying with three months left to his University term and a week's notice. Before I'd never cared what people thought of me, but that morning I was ashamed. My mother never said a harsh word about it, but I needed more than that. I wasn't very religious, but it would have been nice to have someone to pray to whom I knew didn't disapprove." She smiled. "But in the end it was all right, because Geoffrey was happy for me and he was the only one I really cared about before Alison was born. He would have made all of my pain and fear go away if he could have. He probably felt terrible that he couldn't." She added, "What I'm saying is, if George isn't supporting you now, I will beat him so hard into the ground he'll have to dig himself out."

Cynthia grinned. "He is. He doesn't let his own problems distract him."

"Good." She offered a hand, which Cynthia took, and helped her to her feet. "Because it's been awhile since I hit someone and I may be rusty."

*******************************************

It was clear that the Darcys did not keep a traditional household. Mealtimes weren't set, children were frequently at the table or at least under it, and one of their hosts was often missing for an earlier meal. Georgiana Darcy was taking care of Brian and not at breakfast; Geoffrey excused himself to chase after William, who had made off with an entire plate of cinnamon buns and was carrying them as fast as his little legs could take him. As soon as he was gone, Alison made for her father's seat at the table, and assumed it with a posture of presumed authority. She even took a sip of his coffee, and nearly choked on it, but was good enough not to spit it out however much she looked like she wanted to. "It's so bitter. Why does he drink it?"

"I believe the more important question is why did you drink it, Miss Darcy?" Cynthia said, and looked to her husband, who hid his grin behind the paper.

"I don't like milk. I drink so much of it, and Papa says I can't have ale until I'm older, and Mama says too much juice makes me too wild, and she only drinks tea in the morning and it's _really _foul and I drank it once and she was terribly upset and I couldn't play any instruments for a whole week."

"Would you prefer if your parents came into your room and drank everything and ate your food? Or would you be cross?"

"But they _wouldn't_."

"That's why it's a theoretical question," George said, "and you must answer it all the same."

Alison grumbled, "When I have my own house I'm going to let everyone eat and drink whatever they want."

"And have fat, drunken children about? I think not, Miss Darcy," George replied. "You will feel differently when the time comes, I assure you."

Alison did not have a proper answer to that. Instead she took a muffin, curtseyed, and left. Only then did Cynthia let her laughter escape.

"I take it your walk was enjoyable."

"Mrs. Darcy showed me the path into the woods, though that was far less interesting than what she said about you."

"What did she say about me?"

"That you were an authoritative child who was always telling them they were in the wrong."

George swallowed his tea and said, "That does sound like me."

"She also mentioned your cousin's fight with a Radical where he lost his hearing. She said she was there."

"Did she mention she was dressed up as a wolf at the time?"

"Be serious!"

"When am I not?"

He had a point. He was in a good mood after a fair amount of rest, because as Georgiana entered with Brian on her hip, he said, "Mrs. Darcy, will you settle something for us?"

Georgiana stood next to him, and Brian grabbed a lock of George's hair, which she stopped before he could tug too hard. "I would hardly want to stand between marital discard and harmony."

"Were you wearing a wolf costume when you fought the Spencean Radical?"

She answered without flinching, "It was a wolf-_man_ costume, to be precise. Brian, no!" She removed the offending arm, which was still trying to pluck hairs from his cousin's head, but kissed her son when he looked as though he was about to frown. "I must put you somewhere where you have plenty of things to grab that are not attached to people."

"He's not bothering me," George said. George was excessively kind to two types of people – children and patients.

Nonetheless Georgiana eventually put her son on the floor with a blanket and toys. He made sounds, but none of them were words.

Georgiana answered the unasked question. "I didn't speak until I was two, and even then, I spoke only to Geoffrey until I was three."

"Why?"

She looked at Cynthia. "I have no idea, but it was quite a shock to my mother. She swooned right in front of me. It's perhaps the first thing I remember."

Geoffrey eventually found his elder son and what remained of the sticky buns in the attic, beneath an overturned trunk. William was hard to control for the rest of the day, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief when he finally collapsed in his mother's arms and she carried him to bed.

That night, George Wickham slept like the dead, not waking even when she did. He kept all of his recipes for her morning sickness by the bed, some of which occasionally worked, and she succeeded in returning to his side and dozing until the sun was full in the sky. She opened her eyes at last when she heard water splashing, and turned over. He was washing his face. "Good morning."

She smiled. "Good morning."

He sat down next to her. "How are you? Do you wish me to fetch you something?"

"No. Just don't rise yet. A few more minutes."_ With you_.

He leaned over and kissed her. "You may have more than a few minutes, if you wish."

She confessed that she did.

*******************************************

"Dr. and Mrs. Wickham are in Lancashire," Fitzwilliam Darcy announced, without looking up from the letter. His wife and daughters watched him from across the breakfast table. "Geoffrey invited them for a few weeks."

Elizabeth Darcy sipped her tea. "Are they planning on coming to Pemberley?"

"They've not decided. Or so our son informs us." He put the letter aside.

"There's nothing to do in Lancashire," Cassandra Darcy said.

"That's precisely the point," Elizabeth replied. "They live in Town all year; a few weeks in the country would be good for them."

"As opposed to too many weeks in the country," Cassandra grumbled.

Darcy looked at his wife, but said nothing. Sarah Darcy opened her mouth, then shut it again with a look from her father, and conversation continued, albeit in a different direction, towards everyone's plans for the day.

There was a call on Kirkland, where Bingley's Indian flowers were in full bloom. Originally planted for the wedding of his daughters, they now ran wild across the fields, and were too colorful for anyone to have the heart to uproot them. More importantly, the grandchildren loved running through them, so they remained.

"I would treat it as good news," Bingley said from his new chair in the study, one that swiveled to his delight and Darcy's annoyance. "About George and Mrs. Wickham, that is."

"Yes."

"Darcy, you have to try this chair."

"No."

"Well, I can see you're in no mood to be pleasant." Not that it put Bingley off in the least. He merely stopped spinning around and let Monkey climb into his lap. Darcy just stared out the window, watching Elizabeth and Jane take a walk through the meadow. "And here I was, supposing you might brighten up my day."

"Are you intending to patronize me all morning?"

"If I can help it."

Darcy finally cracked a little smirk, and turned to Bingley, and the mounds of papers on the desk. "I am afraid I have very little advice to offer you. I'm not experienced in these matters."

"You can say it. _Divorce_." Bingley stroked Monkey's back, making the tiny primate coo. "I confess I am now mildly upset I did not involve myself in matters of politics, for I feel entirely unable to help my son."

"Your brother-in-law is a knight."

"Dr. Maddox is perhaps the _least_ political member of the peerage, if such a thing can be said."

"Surely he has friends in Parliament."

"He has friends who happen to _be_ in Parliament; of that I'm sure. Yet I can't bring myself to ask him to press them, as I know he would despise it. Edmund is free to ask himself. Or he'll have to do it the simple way, with money."

"He will recover from this."

"You mean financially or emotionally?"

"I mean both."

Bingley smiled. "And I suppose I ought to count my blessings; both my daughters are already married, and Charles stands to inherit enough of a fortune that this scandal won't be too much of a distraction, should he ever decide to shed his bachelor title."

"Yes, there is Charles."

"A young man of taste who seems to have little affection for the ladies of the Ton and a vast inheritance – I cannot think of why anyone like that would linger in an unmarried state..."

"_Bingley_."

"Of course, this is about my other son, the one in over his head. I should stay focused." But he was still smiling. "What do you think, Monkey?"

"I don't care what that rat thinks."

"Rats are not primates. It's another species entirely and you know it." Bingely scratched Monkey behind his ears and was rewarded with a little squeal. "Come now, Darcy. We can't both be morose over different things at the same time. Is Cassandra still upset with you?"

Darcy sighed. "I suspect she will be until I let her return to Town."

"You cannot blame a girl of one and twenty for an independent streak." But it was more than an independent streak; Cassandra was confined to the north until the latest situation blew over and the would-be suitor set his eye on another lady. Though she had so far remained entirely within the bounds of propriety, Cassandra's eager flirting won over a few more hearts than she could handle, and none of them belonged to men her father approved of. His serious demeanor railed against her flippant attitude a few too many times as of late, and she made that clear to everyone around her. Fortunately Elizabeth was there to stand between them, as Sarah Darcy stuck her nose up at the entire process. "You have one daughter deemed too eager to marry and one daughter who doesn't want to marry at all. And a third who is – the entire spectrum, if you would."

Darcy rolled his eyes. "I am truly blessed."


End file.
